


Fires Ablaze

by i_haveno_lyfe



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Baz is a prince, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Smut, Execution, F/M, Graphic Description of Corpses, I Am Sorry, I get breakdowns with typing this, M/M, Magic, Mind Games, Mind Manipulation, Occasional angst, Oracle - Freeform, Original Character(s), Pining, Potions, Prophecies, Simon being a stupid ball of bisexual energy, Simon is lord of Watford, Swordfighting, The mage is a bitch, Tournaments, idk honestly, intense swordfight with sexual tension, map included, mentions of blood and murders, mild politics, murders, ok intense pining, really I am, roses are red
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-01-24 11:08:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 49,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21337249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_haveno_lyfe/pseuds/i_haveno_lyfe
Summary: Simon Snow didn't really anticipate being given lordship over Watford, nor did he think he'd get this obsessed with the crown prince of Veladan. The crown prince, who unlike their youthful days when Queen Natasha was still alive, decided to slash him the same day every year with his sharpest words.A meeting at the veranda, moonlight above, and unbidden feelings hidden beneath.Penelope said Simon's courageous, but she also said he can be slow. He didn't think "slow" would take years for him to understand the viper's nest the capital lies on, nor did he believe he'd ever admit Prince Basilton is truly right.And yet, he were, and it was running late.
Relationships: Penelope Bunce & Micah Cordero, Simon Snow/Agatha Wellbelove, The Mage/Lucy Salisbury, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow & Agatha Wellbelove, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 7
Kudos: 55





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've never really considered writing any fanfics before, since I find it hard writing characters that were already designed and built. However, I thought of giving it a shot, and since I'm doing so, I decided it should be the most non-mainstream au in this fandom. So here you go , a Fantasy Royalty AU. You're welcome :D
> 
> I would also love to say some of my inspirations came from C.S Pascat's Captive Prince and my own personal royalty novels so if you find anything familiar (either from CP or you actually know me), then yes, I got some inspo there.  
Canon-typical Warnings apply to this fic, even though I've changed some names to fit the aesthetic, added new characters, and adjusted some plot points to fit my own. However, major points can be canon.
> 
> Thank you, whoever you are, for giving this your time! I hope you enjoy my first fanfic attempt.

  
  


**Chapter 1**

  
  


Even with the usual well maintained grace of the servants, king's men ushering them over, and the Lord of Watford overseeing everything from the smallest candle set upright on the mantelpiece to every singular crystal in each chandelier being well dusted and polished, the castle remains chaotic. It's not a surprise, though. No one seems disgruntled or apprehended than usual. It's more of a practiced routine, even if hurried and messy.

Simon walks down the hallway, a maid rushing his way as she clutches her dress up before she halts just as quickly when she catches his figure with wide jade eyes, gives a low bow, then continues her run. He purses his lips, the sight of the woman who's clearly his age or even older bowing so low making him uncomfortable, and he shakes his head before resuming his walk. He cannot order her (or the others, or everyone else for that matter) not to humble herself, because that had already proved to be a lost cause. His king very strictly lectured him on why it's necessary the first time he scrambled forward to pull a servant up, and how his sole existence may be the most important thing to this provision. To this _ throne _.

"You are the light, Simon. A blazing star. You shouldn't allow anyone to look down on you." He'd said, the fringe of his honeyed hair falling across his forehead, which never happens unless the King's frantic and well roused. Simon didn't understand then what's making him so vehement against it. He didn't relish in superiority, though he loves to be admired and called a good Lord, and he didn't get off over seeing whoever beneath him about to prostrate themselves as though before their king. Some nights, those thoughts whisper to him that he's not that good Lord, nor the savior. He's only destruction. He doesn't know who to believe anymore.

Simon shakes his head again to clear it, letting out a long exhale, and he rounds the corner before spotting two guards by the door to the grand hall, standing erect and doing their best to bite back smiles and snickers. Of course. That also was expected.

"Devan. Nialler." He says curtly yet with a clip, watching the stony faces of theirs fixing back in place as they sense his mood, and he nods once at them. He's sure once he passes by that door and into the packed hall, they'd be exchanging gossip again like bickering old ladies. He should cut them slack, though, for it seems royal gossip is what keeps most guards waking up in the morning and going back to sleep without dwelling much on the luster-lacking inner workings of the palace, within the capital city that never seems to house anything past the occasional minor feuds. This day, specially, will be a treat for them and the servants. Gossip will be travelling back and forth, whispers humming in corners, and giggles exchanged over what brand new lady will be swooning over their arriving prince and ending up making a fool of herself.

_ And they always do _ , he thinks as he passes the threshold and gets welcomed by loud chatter and bright cream and gold. At least everything seems in place, which makes him sigh out a held breath he didn't know was there. The large tables are set, the roses (the prince loves red roses. They had to be freshly picked) placed in vases in every corner, tablecloths well washed and ironed, and the red wine being poured into gold goblets handed around. He shouldn't be worrying over what a head servant would monitor, really, but the prince ( _ may he live long, the pompous pric- _) grouches over the tiniest things and makes a habit of lashing it out on whoever is near, which always happens to be Simon himself. Last time he had to withstand a verbal flogging for fifteen minutes straight on how he can't manage his inferiors and the workers in such a single castle among many in Veladan and only keeping his position as the youngest lord because his power is manipulation. He could've argued saying that if it's so, he'd manipulate him into submission and vanity, but he bit back his tongue when he caught his icy thunderstorm gaze. He wasn't willing to go through a real flogging. 

The servant nearest to the entrance bows to him and he gives them an acknowledging nod, moving forward to the cluster of attendants engaging in refined sentences and polite smiles. Simon catches Veladan's ambassador to Amaria's eyes and the dark man makes his way to him, lowering his head slightly, though his lips draw back in a wide grin.

"Lord Snow! It's been a while."

"It sure has been, Lord Micah. I'm thrilled to see you, last time you owed me a drink." Simon arches a brow and grins, and Micah gushes out an amused laughter before taking a hold of a golden cup from one passing tray and handing it to Simon.

"I must admit, I was surprised by your swordsmanship. Your skill is truly astounding, I didn't think I'd end on the sawdust." Micah says, and it's apparent he holds no grudges at all. If anything, his eyes are glinting like he's discussing one of his idols, and his dark complexion may be brighter than any other in the room. Simon rarely sees him throughout the year, considering their respective kingdoms and how far Watford is from the border, so they'd made a habit of having random challenges every time they meet. The 24th of February is a constant in these sparse times, always was. The entire kingdom spends the start of the months preparing with held breaths and buzzing excitement, a blanket of mixed joy and anticipation drawing over their skies and beds, and once the day arrives it all erupts in shimmering golds and grays. They count down each year, looking up to that image of their young and enamoring handsome prince with his perfect styled pitch black hair and silver eyes, and they cheer him on like his ascension will be the salve to their wounds and the bread on their tables. He rides all high and mighty on his equally black steed, followed by soldiers and banners of green smudged with golden stars and violet winged goats, and he presents the image of supremacy that even Simon sometimes feels the urge to kneel, and it punches him in the guts every time because he remembers what kind of a man he would be kneeling to.

He almost wishes, _ almost _, that Prince Basilton doesn't show up to the banquet hosted in his name, for his birthday, but he shoos the wish aside when he realises he'd have worried himself and worked all week to some semblance of perfection their prince will never care to look upon. It infuriates him more.

At least he doesn't have to see him most of the year. He makes sure to offer his goodbyes more vehemently once the Prince returns to his castle in Borak than his greetings to his arrival.

The edge of the golden cup reaches his lips, and Simon runs his tongue over the side of it adorned with gemstones and patterns, practicing his tick to calm himself down over the feeling of his favourite smooth sage Emerald, and then he takes a short sip. Veladan's ambassador lets his eyes wander around the room, following Simon's drifting ones in comfortable lack of conversation, and they watch as the council enters the hall and take their respective seats, acknowledging whoever gives them a respectful nod. They catch Simon's eyes and some of them offer him their best flat stares, and Micah salutes them with a raise of his goblet. Simon's eyes drift further, scanning his surroundings, noting the position of each influential figure and royalty of other kingdoms they're on good terms with, alliances, and he notices that the King himself isn't there yet. Neither is the Prince, which doesn't strike him as a particular surprise.

It's an old habit of their dear, lovely, and oh-so-humble prince. 

He arrives the day before the banquet, makes sure not a soul unless the utmost necessary sees him that day, and bestows them the next with the most grandiose entrance that beats the year before. Simon once heard the guards chattering about it, and one of them said the Prince is almost like a woman wooing her crowd of admirers, and that what he lacks is a pair of earrings to bring out the faint flush on his cheekbones. Devan had replied with a laughter, clearly amused by the idea, and he sussed over how their Lord would want to claw his eyes out from the excessive show of luxury. 

"I bet you the Prince enjoys watching Lord Snow withering every time he makes his way in like a bride. He makes sure he smiles at him to let him know he means it. That's why they get worse and worse each year."

"No shit," Another one (Gerard perhaps?) had gruntled. "He's set up some expectations, man. I can't look at one lady and not compare her to the Prince. It's freaking the shit outta me."

Simon knew they were right. Hell, he suffers from it all year round, from memories to the date set on his calendar to remind him of how he'll need to be extra drunk when no duties are needed of him that day. So he grimaced and didn't hound on them, walking away as if he didn't hear any of their talks.

The only silver lining today, and each royal birth day, is her. Heavens. Her hair is in long pale waves down her shoulders and back, her slender milky neck holding rubies and gold, and her amber eyes shining as if all the stars in the sky gathered to be placed in there. She notices Simon watching her and makes her way to him, and he feels his heart pace pick up immediately. A quick glance down lets him appreciate her burgundy gown and cleavage, arms smooth and spotless, and he lifts his orbs back to hers when she's too near that it's impossible not to lavish in her innocent features. 

He gulps.

"Lord Snow," she bows with so much elegance it threatens a sea nymph, and Simon blinks to force the stupor back and hold his ground. 

_ Merlin, do something._

"Lady Wellbelove." He whispers, stuttering a little, and bows down to take one of her hands and press his lips to it. Her skin is as soft as it's always been. No matter how many years pass, she remains as beauteous as ever, and very unattainable, lord or not. He can't begin to imagine holding something as delicate in his hands. He can't begin to imagine letting _ anyone _ hold something as delicate in their hands.

"Lady Wellbelove. Fancy seeing you." Micah drawls, watching them in bemusement (as always) and receives another bow from her. Simon wills his urge to pull her up and have her static down with another gulp, and he watches her fall of hair instead. 

"You look… stunning, as always."

Penelope calls his nonexistent filter courageous, he calls it stupidity. Nonetheless, Lady Agatha Wellbelove rises and smiles bashfully at them, her cheeks dusted pink. It's one of the most endearing sights to watch, right after the large visual of a young Prince Basilton portrait down the hallway. On cue, because telepathy may be the Prince's secret power and because he loves to taunt him when he forgets how miserable this day will end up to, the massive doors to the hall swing open with minimum force, drawing out the movement and forcing every eye to swing their way. And indeed, it's their beloved Prince, and he's there to make his entrance.

"Merlin…" He says it in a whisper this time, half awed and half exasperated, as he follows the show with wide ocean blue eyes. The Prince was striding in his long -perfect- legs down a now cleared aisle, his raven hair parted and some of their smooth strands falling over his face as he walks. A long black drape is covering his shoulders and back, hooked by a pin down his throat, and the gold of it mirrors the shimmering patterns across its fabric. Frankly, it mirrors everything. It catches the light and sucks it in to him, it blazes over his mix of beiges, blacks and gold in his dress-shirt, and it contrasts with the pitch black leggings that outline the shapes of his calves and thighs. Good God. When his own fingers twitch against his sides, Simon sees him fixing the sleeve of one arm with the other, requiring him to withdraw his hands from their hidden spots beneath the drape, and it strikes him that the Prince is wearing several rings and not just his emerald heirloom. 

A ruby, a sapphire, and one silver dragon with several thin chains connecting them. 

He _indeed_ is missing those earrings.

Murmurs are trying to remain discreet, though it's obvious how everyone is being enthralled by the Prince's presence and being drawn to his sight like moths to a flame, and once he reaches the spot closest to Simon he lifts his chin a fraction, shrewdness masking his eyes, and he gives off his most charismatic and outrageously innocent smile. A woman next to Simon practically gasps.

Simon sneers, though he keeps most of the expression off his face in hopes that no one notices (but leaves enough that Prince Basilton does) and he curses the day he had to remain in this castle or even be born into this province at all. How would anyone believe their insanely innocent prince is a snake when he has full lips like those and eyebrows drawn by a practiced artist? They'd rather say Simon is overreacting. Or worse, they'd say he's immature, a traitor to the crown, and wasn't supposed to be handed the lordship of this kingdom's capital. He hears all those already from one bothersome person, he doesn't need it to be a common tongue.

"Damn," He hears a low voice by his side, bringing him back from eyeing his Prince seat himself on the far end of the now setting banquet table, and he smiles tiredly.

"Hello, Penelope. You're late."

"Seems not. The Prince just arrived." She brushes her hands over her dress's waist, smoothing out any invisible creases from the violet fabric. 

"You know Bas- our Prince arrives whenever he pleases. It serves him the grand effect he aims for." He sighs, shutting his eyes, and she shrugs in response though the ends of her lips tug up in a faint smile.

It takes a bit for King David to arrive after that, a standing regality in all its forms, and the room nearly prostrated itself for him. The servants did. They flattened their torsos to the floor, which led the King to smile, and the Lords and Ladies kneeled and bowed in respect. No one moved until the King had reached his chair by the Prince's side, and when they did there was still a hushness in the room. Simon surveyed the end of the table, still standing by Wellbelove, Micah and Penelope's sides, and Penelope leans slightly to whisper again.

"Someone doesn't seem happy."

"Don't say that. The King is always happy that our Prince is soon coming of age." He frowns, a crease forming on his temple, and he feels Penelope give a patient yet exasperated sigh. 

"Not the King, of course. The Prince. He's scowling at him."

Simon follows her line of sight and then lets his lids close. He can't deal with this. He can't. Not now, not this year, not _ever_. They're just a few months, he comforts himself, only a few and then maybe this foul mood will lift and the bitterness will end. Today has to pass in any way possible, because there won't be another like this. This may well be his last. 

"Friends and family. Lords, Ladies. Our brothers from other Kingdoms," the King starts, voice ringing in the quiet hall. "I'm glad you all are present to celebrate our beloved's birth date, Prince Basilton Pitch. In just a year-" he pauses, his eyes meeting almost every individual in the room before giving a gentle light shrug and smiling. "We'll be returning the throne to its rightful heir. To who it belongs."

A few murmurs erupt, waving across the crowd, and King David's smile comes back timidly. 

"I'm sure our Prince will be a great leader and a righteous king. That his stay away in Borak hasn't hindered his hindsight and rusted the gears of his brain. I hear the weather is very humid."

At this, the laughs come out confidently, praising their King for his good-natured jokes, and Prince Basilton's face shuts down to worrying neutrality. His eyes widen a fraction only Simon notices, because he'd spent way too long before mapping down every change and each tug on his face to make out the inner workings of his brain, and he sits down immediately when the King does, if not with, like he's racing him to it.

_ Stubborn prick _.

Simon would never voice his insults aloud. At least _ those _ have a filter, for otherwise he wouldn't have lived another day in this castle. He figured he doesn't need to, though, because his Prince already knows, and is probably a mind reader. It must mean something that he's letting him away with it.

\\\\\\\ ////

"I'm sure my king wishes, as all of us, for Prince Basilton's ascension." Lord Fares inclines his head politely, an open expression on his face, and Snow smiles in response, raising his cup and gesturing for him. The rest of the hall falls into their initial chatter, now satiated and bellies full from meats and wrapped toasted cabbages. If it wasn't for the inevitability of this night, Simon would've indulged himself in actually enjoying how the butter tasted when it dripped from his fork and down to his tongue, marinating it slowly and filling each and every taste bud to the brim. 

He did, for a second, but even that didn't last when his mind is racing.

He tries focusing on other important issues at hand, like setting good stands with other kingdoms and figuring out new trades. He'd been speaking with Lord Fares for nearly half an hour, nodding to his narration of how their kingdom's methods of making fabrics produce the finest designs, no flaws seen, and how well made the Prince's attire is. 

"That's certainly Mrajan, my Lord. The details of the dragons with golden silk, and the pattern, is certainly from our kingdom." He had said, then proceeded to praise the Prince's taste and knowledge in where and from who to buy his cloth. Despite his disdain, Simon made a note to approach cloth trades with Mraja in the upcoming months in order to prepare for the coronation.

Laughter is rising by his side when he puts back his wine, already feeling the tension in his muscles easing a tad, and he turns to see men gathered by Micah as he recites the time he beat him in chess after just two minutes, earning another cackle and some search with their eyes for him. Simon narrows his own and sighs, no bite to the action, and he excuses himself before rounding the hall again for more figures to greet and make sure are welcomed. It didn't take him more than another two lords and a third-to-the-throne prince from their neighbouring kingdom south before he spotted Lady Wellbelove bowing before the Prince, her gown pooling around her, and is risen when he beckons her with a hand holding hers. 

Absolutely wonderful. It started, then.

He catches the Prince's eyes from across the hall and really sneers this time, rolling his eyes, then he turns away without watching what happens next. He doesn't want to know if he kisses her hand or cheek. Or pulls her closer. Maybe she'll be his dance partner this year, and other women will glare at her like she'd strangled their children cold-bloodedly. They may as well think she did. Each one of them thinks she can birth the heirs to the throne, and every one of them tries their hardest to earn that place. The wait each year brings on talking materials to soak in for the rest of the months, and by now each servant and guard knows who tripped when the Prince smiled at her, who refused to eat anything because the Prince stared at her when she attempted to, and who got herself drunk because her wonderful Prince kept offering her a cup of wine that she ended up knocking herself out. Agatha- Lady Wellbelove isn't that vain, she mustn't be. 

She must know better. He frowns into his own cup. 

\\\\\\\ ////

"Where is he?" Simon sighs and tries his best soothing smile to his King, lowering his head near his and mumbling in a voice only shared between the both of them.

"I'm sure I know where he is, your majesty. Shall I tell him you need him?"

King David seems to take this in for a moment, his gaze sweeping the attendants, nothing in particular holding his attention, then he waves a dismissive hand in the end and picks up his replenished wine.

"He'll join us when he wants to. Just make sure he doesn't stay wherever he is way too long. It won't look good as a pre-ascension decision."

"Yes, of course." He nods, retreating, and he dumps with his own goblet the remaining hope that this night might be anything different from the ones before.

Walking past the courtiers and lordships, dismissing any approaching figure with an apologetic shake, Simon walks out of the hall and to the hallway instead, twisting his head to the right and placing a hand over his face. Nialler rolls his eyes discreetly and shoots Devan a look that says 'Here we go', but neither Devan responds nor Simon reacts to them. Years before, they'd be pointing him to the direction their Prince took off to, but now he knows perfectly well where, and they stopped granting help. He lowers his hand and points at Nialler saying "Alert me if some Lord is departing or if anything happens", and he makes his way towards the far stone and lantern-lit terrace. 

He spots his shadow immediately, perched by the railing and holding his cup up to his flushed and red-tinted lips. Not that he can see their color clearly from where he's standing, but he imagines they must be. They always are when he catches him in the same place after every banquet, lonesome and almost pitiful, if not for the venom seeping out of his mouth the moment he parts it. It seems rather like a promised meeting, the Prince going there every time knowing that Simon will follow, and Simon going there knowing he'll find him. He cannot fathom why he even drags his feet to that cursed place anyway. He knows full well what awaits him, and he knows he'll end up despising the Prince, and worst of it is: 

He ends up despising himself as well.

"And here I thought you didn't care enough to notice me gone." Prince Basilton mumbles dryly, sipping right after, and it infuriates Simon how utterly limber he is with his drinking and bending over the stone like this was the way he's created. All slender arms, slender violin-playing fingers, slender neck and legs. He must admit the Prince is a sight to behold, when he's not speaking or even looking at you. He's the sort of exotic beauty to gawk at and wonder how it exists, but never dare approach. He hates that he still reminds him of snakes. Or dragons.

He needs to stop his train of thought.

"Your highness," he drawls, hands clasped behind his back. "The King was worried."

"Ah. The King." Basilton smiles, though what it does is send shivers down Simon's spine. The uncomfortable ones. "He must be stewing, on edge, today. Or for a while, if we're being honest. Can't handle a true Pitch blood reclaiming what's his."

"That's not-" Simon catches himself before the snapping continues, and he regains his composure with a clearing of his throat. Somehow, this makes the prince turn to face him with a mad amused glint in his eyes, jawbones angular and cheekbones sharper than they were the year before. He's aged, Simon can't help but note, and up close it looks like he managed to tower over him by another inch. Just what he needed.

"That's not? Oh, Snow. Always the oblivious. It's a miracle how you've gotten yourself lordship at all."

"Your highness. The King loves you, and so do we all. I'm sure no disrespect was meant from any of us."

"For starters, Lord of Watford, he is not a true King. Secondly, I don't wish to discuss my personal matters with you. Sod off."

Simon frowns, unclasping his hands in a futile attempt to do anything with them, and Basilton casts his eyes to the sky for dear mercy then takes another long gulp. 

"The King asks your highness to not leave the courtiers waiting for you too long."

"Did he also mention that I'm making a fool out of myself and that I shouldn't be given the reins over this country?" He asks, voice low but tone edged and uncharacteristically dangerous. Simon has no idea what exactly happened this time, this year, that set the Prince off too much, for nothing new has occurred. By now, he should be properly teasing him and drawing him out to a snap before pointing out how ridiculous and disrespectful he's being. 

By now, he should be giving off that loud manic laugh and wiping at nonexistent tears, telling him his level of gullibility is unattractive and yet joke-worthy. 

_ 'Fastidious? You? Who by Merlin hit these men on the head? Are they completely besotted? Bonkers?' _ He'd say, ruining whatever praise Simon has ever earned in his life and hoped he truly deserved.

However, when Simon attempted to again say the King wishes him no ill-will, the Prince's dam shatters and whatever poison beyond hails down. His face freezes him, his eyes impaling rods of ice past his chest, and his voice clipping him harshly.

"How overwhelmingly foolish are you? No, how were you even handed with any responsibility? Tell me your secret, Snow. You keep defending your precious King like he's God's messenger on earth. He favours you too, by the looks of it." His eyes turn icier, his tone an octave lower and hundred times deadlier. "Do you bend for him? Is that it? The majestic and morale King David nails his castle's lord behind closed doors. Explains much."

Simon's fist hits the stonewall behind him before he has the chance to comprehend what he's doing. Hot pain screams up his arm and he grits his teeth with wide raging eyes directed at the vile young man before him, and Basilton gives a wide unsettling smirk.

"Hit a nerve?"

This time, it's not pain that radiates through his senses and reins him back, but the cold liquid splashing over his face and torso does halt him in place, fist raised and inches from his Prince's face. Basilton's eyes are wide, looking like he just woke up from a stupor, and his body coiled in tension as he leans away from Simon's mad form. 

_ Shit _.

Simon lets his hand fall by his side, expression falling to sudden apathy, and he keeps the glare at his Prince with all sorts of curses, yells, and threats suppressed behind his eyes, and Basilton seems to regains his composure immediately after, because he stands straighter, puts on a mean face with a proper poisonous scowl, and hisses a "Get out."

He does. He does not even register the sound of the goblet crashing against the wall behind him.

He should clean himself. Return.

He should feign neutrality and pull on his mask of smiles and poised elegancy.

He should…

He has no idea how he did it. It was all a blur since the moment he stepped out the terrace and till his feet dragged him to bed. Flashes of memories are the only indication he did truly return and act out his role in this day, and only sheer will of not (_never_) fucking up making it work. He made a point of not glancing the Prince's way even when he returned. Especially when he returned. The night didn't go on for long after.

He was wrong today. He didn't know what awaited him this time. If he did, he wouldn't have walked to him on his feet willing, and he would've rather got himself filthy pissed than face whatever the Prince seemed to have prepared for him. When he falls down face first on bed in his chambers and remembers the Prince has to remain two more days in Watford, a loud groan escapes him and he shuts his eyes with more force than it's needed. 

He thought sleep would at least douse down this anger and throbbing of his head. He hoped. However, his nightmares didn't seem to consent.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this took a bit to update, but now I'm finally free of my midterms and can actually write!!! Hurrahh!!  
I'm trying to introduce y'all the this imaginary world here, so I hope I am doing a good job with that. There're some maps done to help with the entire vision of it and for the a e s t h e t i c. Bear with me xD  
Anyways, here ya go.

In case anyone's interested, my own fanfic's Pinterest board is [here ](https://www.pinterest.com/litmonst/fires-ablaze/)  
Feel free to navigate!!

\----------------

**Chapter 2**

When wakefulness took hold and pulled him back roughly to rays of sunlight filtering through the thin curtains and landing right over his eyes, Simon groaned and buried his face further into the silk-clothed pillow. His head was still throbbing, pounding that's consistent and unrelenting, and his skin was sweat-slick. He hadn't gotten enough sleep nor was he able to stay awake either, for his exhaustion and his headache forced him to restless slumber, and his mind played all sorts of horrors to jolt him awake every couple of hours. He knew it was because of the night before, the fist banging and the death glare boring holes into him, telling him silently he's nothing but a bug beneath its wearer's feet, but he dared not linger on the thought.

He heaves his torso and rubs the sleep from his eyes, pressing the heels of his palms first into his eye sockets then his temple, hoping it can do anything to the fast rushing blood into his brain, before giving up and letting his arms fall limply by his side. After minutes of simply sitting there quietly and unmoving, a knock on the door snaps him back to reality, followed by the entering of one of the female servants in the castle. He recognizes her immediately, Juliana, her dark hair braided up and coiled to the back of her head, and her cream-coloured long-sleeved dress covering her up to the neck, all laces. She gives a curt bow, extending the tray of breakfast before her as she does so, and any signs that she's uncomfortable or bashful upon seeing her lord shirtless in bed was lost on Simon. She placed the tray on the low wooden table below the window along with a pitcher of cool water, then retreated back and shut the door behind her wordlessly. Simon sighed and got up, not bothering to clothe himself, and he dropped down to the cushions on the floor and by the table. He drowns down a full cup of water, taking a minute to feel it move down his throat and his belly, then he lets go of the tin cup with another sigh. 

His fingers stretch and curl upon his command, drumming over air and hanging on to it, all in hopes to shake off the hum in them that's been taking over since the moment he heard the words 'Hit a nerve?' uttered so bitterly and seeping venom. No, maybe before that, when he heard him suggest the unimaginable, and he felt the tingling down to his fingertips and the world fuzzy just as his vision but for the figure standing before him. He might've glowed too, a shimmering gold halo that's not as pretty as it is dangerous, and the memory of it sends shivers down his spine. He has to wind down and reach his calm place so he can will whatever tried to resurface back down, so he starts it with methodically nipping on his bread and honey, poking cubes of butter with his silverware before spreading them as well. 

No more than fifteen minutes passed before Simon was dressed in a light white linen shirt and his pants, marching out of his chambers with a hand combing back his bronze curls (more of tugging helplessly, really) and body itching in anticipation as he heads down the hallways. He greets the guards by his door, passing by and taking turns to the veranda by the gardens and Northern gate of the castle. However, before his arrival and meeting of the morning sky, he was stopped short by the figures of two guards and an impeccable third between them, all harsh facial lines and eyes, thunderstorms in them, and Simon thoughtlessly bowed. He curses soundlessly, shutting his eyes, and his fists curl behind his back.

He doesn't want to think of the night before anymore. He doesn't want to remember those words or that tone that doubtlessly meant to slay him in two. He doesn't want to relive that caged energy trying to burst free, nor does he wish to see that fear in the Prince's eyes once more even if in flashes of memory. Because if he does, he'll ache, and if he allows that ache to control him, he'll get awfully sentimental and swear he did indeed see the Prince's face soften guiltily upon coming across him right now.

It can't be true. The Prince never feels guilt.

"Your highness." He murmurs lowly, still bowed, and when he gains no reply for some seconds he rises and resumes his walk without meeting his gaze. He does, however, fail to hear any movement behind him till he was by the end of the corridor and near the veranda, and only when he was out of sight did he hear the party of three continue on their walk. He gives himself no chance to wonder upon that, for he soaks in sunlight the moment he steps out and gazes at the gardens and stables, the training area -his destination- standing right beside them, and he makes his way there like a man on a mission.

It's been his habit since he 'matured'. Since he finally gained his inborn power and realised he wasn't meant to exist among others. It wasn't a question of how powerful he is if he can't even use what he has, so he decided after his first incident to deem himself powerless. King David had said to contain it and put it on a leash, locking its cage and keeping the key in a tight grasp for when he needs to use it, but Simon knew that's just as good as having none at all.

He'll never use it, nor will he want to.

That's when he started taking his sword lessons seriously, and when a sword felt like an extension of him rather than a weapon to wield. It was his arm and his temperament, and a friend he can vent to and know will take on all his worries without judgement or offering needless advice. That's also around the time prince Basilton last visited his room and kept plucking childishly on a stray thread of the bedsheets, telling him he's leaving the castle and the entire capital for the province he truly rules and has under his command till his ascension. Borak, he'd said, and Simon had frowned and asked why. He'd gotten no answer then, no answer now, and the hurt from losing his friend at the age of fifteen never lessened, because what he got back was a true heartless prince rather than the boy he used to hang around with.

Simon enters the training hall, closed off but for the large opened doors, and he marches off to his own carved and gold-tinged sword hung by the wall. The smile draws on his lips immediately as he feels its familiar weight resting in his palms, and he gives it a few experimental slices in the air before starting.

Soon, sweat started beading on his forehead and his chest was heaving with exertion, but Simon didn't stop. His feet danced to his own rhythm, steps of practice and muscle memory, and his arms coiled and thrung forward, waving his blade forth then to the side. With each movement he let the metal slice worry after worry, thought after thought, and memory after memory till all that was left of him were his screaming muscles and racing heart. He drops down to the sawdust on the floor and lets the air go into his lungs contently, wiping his sweat on his forearm, and then swings his head to the side when he hears Devan approaching and bowing.

"My lord. Bradley has been searching for you. It's a letter."

Simon sighs and heaves himself up, dusting sawdust off his clothes and placing his sword back carefully, then he nods in response to the guard as he follows him out. It's still not afternoon when he emerges back into the sunlight and green, and the breeze feels good on his damp skin which never ceases to make him ready to moan in satisfaction. Simon's feet follow Devan, but his eyes roam around the all-too-familiar gardens and roses scattered around, a choice of late Queen Natasha and then her only son, Basilton, and then the stables where he can see a few servants lingering by. Perhaps it's because of routine that hardly changes, or maybe he wished to ignore the fact these days are always different than the rest of the year, but when a black steed emerged from the stable doors with white leggings stiff around its flank on top, Simon's mind nearly short-circuited. 

It took him a minute and a couple of blinking to wrap his mind around the fact that it's the prince, and a few more to take in his suffocating legs and calves, attuned well in his leggings, and the navy blue jacket with gold embroidery laced up all over his torso. He had his raven hair pulled up in a ponytail, leaving space for his sharp gray eyes to hypnotize Simon where he stands, and his rose lips thinned then parted upon witnessing Simon in front of him, halted and gaping. 

Basilton blinks back, his horse paused, so is Simon, and they remain to stare for nerve-prickling seconds till Simon sneers and turns his head again, angry with himself for allowing the prince to see him distracted by his appearance, then more angry for being _distracted _by his appearance. Why does he have to look this perfect when he nearly drove Simon to his wits' end hours before? It's almost as though it didn't happen. Or worse. It's almost as though the prince has no heart at all, which won't be a different claim than what's already been circulating for years. Simon adds that to his list of "Powers the Prince may have", for he still has no idea what it is. He only got as far as three.

  1. Perfecting everything.
  2. Unmatched beauty.
  3. Mind reading.

And now

4\. Living with no heart.

He doesn't think he'll be able to tell anytime soon what really is his power, but he can anticipate it's on the darker side of the spectrum. Not just because of who he is, but because King David once told him children do not stray further from their parents and who they are. If they lean towards the cooler side, their child is also there, if it's more to red and anger, that's also where the child will eventually end. Power breeds power, he'd said, and there never really was a powerful man who was the product of the weak. Queen Natasha wasn't weak, she was fierce and housed the power of destruction if she wished it to be. She was fair and just, ruling her people not with fear but with respect. Yet, in the end, she-

At least the prince doesn't know his as well, and part of Simon is as unknown to the prince as much as many others of him are to Simon, so he relishes on that. He makes his way back through the veranda and to the castle hallways, Devan close behind and silent, though Simon can hear the gears in his brain working and clicking when he grasps an idea he plans to voice later to his friends. It doesn't take Simon long, though, to figure out that gossip has already been circulating around since the night before, and that it all boils down to the usual preparators of Devan and Nialler. Simon had only reached the corner of one hallway to see some servants perking up and glancing at him warily then ducking away, while Nialler, standing by Simon's -Lord Watford's- working room at the end of that hallway, gives his partner a short glance that Simon guesses was met with some inarticulate signs behind his back. Nialler gives an understanding widening of orbs and opens the door.

Bradley who's been standing by as well, hands clasped behind his back and face cast downwards, glances up immediately and bows to Simon, following him in upon his urging and shutting the door.

"I'm sorry, my lord, for interrupting your practice." He says, his tone guilty and wary, to which Simon smiles and shakes his head.

"It's alright, Bradley. I learned that there's been a letter?"

"Ah, yes, my lord. It's from Prince Faris of Mraja. He'd sent it as soon as he crossed Lejwa and I reckon by now he's arrived at Platon. He'd asked it to be delivered to you directly."

Simon frowns slightly and extends his hand forwards, watching him scramble to produce the sealed letter from his garments and hand it to him, then he pulls back the wax with the Mrajan insignia to unfold the letter. It's short and to the point, going over the usual formal pleasantries at first then informing the Lord of Watford that he's joyful for the lord's interest in Mrajan fabrics and will surely send his best merchants to the castle as soon as possible. He gives him a few names and recommendations, wishing their kingdom prosperity at the end of his text, then signing his name in strange curves that are his name. Simon puts the letter away and seats himself down, rolling his shoulders to release the tension from them as the good mood he'd gathered from before started to wear away, and Bradley, eyes full of concern, clears his throat.

"My lord… I heard-" He cuts himself midway, pursing his lips tightly as he senses that it's the wrong way to approach the subject, then he tries again more carefully. "I hope you're not too stressed. I'm sure the Prince's foul mood will better in a day or two."

"The prince will be leaving in a day or two," Simon says shortly, meeting his hesitant gaze. "So that's what's been circulating among the castle walls, then. What do they say?"

"I'm sure that-"

"Tell me." Simon presses, though he tries his hardest not to leave a harsh edge to his voice, but Bradley winces nonetheless and drops his gaze shamefully down. Simon doesn't know what does he have to be shameful for. Bradley was Simon's personal helper (he still refuses to call him servant) since he became Lord of Watford, and ever since then he showed utmost loyalty and kindness. No wicked words left his lips and his concern never stopped amusing Simon to the point of appreciation. Surely he can't think now that Simon believes he indulged in spreading such rumours, if they were rumours at all. 

"They… they're saying his highness and my lord had a heated argument, and that his highness made you angry that you almost hit him. They also said his highness plans on-" he pauses again, this time a tremble in his limbs, and he swallows thickly before resuming. "That he plans on stripping my lord from his lordship, and that he told you so. They say it's because of undignified acts."

Simon's frown etches deeper into his face and he unconsciously grips the arms of his chair tighter, blue eyes turning deep with anger, and Bradley senses the change in the mood just as quickly as he mouthed the last part, shrinking further into himself.

"I apologize, my lord. You asked me what they said."

"I'll deal with those two later." He says it loud for the two intended guards by the door to hear, and he tries for a faint assuring smile to the man before him, nodding. "It's alright, I did ask you. Thank you, Bradley. You can go."

The young man flushes upon being thanked, startled even though it's not the first time, and he hurries out of the room if not to leave his lord to his worries, then to escape the wrath of the guards outside who he outed. Simon groans and grips his curls in tight fists, wondering when will this nightmare of a birth date end, and he drops his forehead to the desk. If he can do anything at the moment, he has no doubt it'll be kicking the prince in the shins, then gloating over his pain and telling him that that's what he deserves for ruining whatever good reputation he was trying to harness. _ Damn you_, he would've mouthed. _ Damn your insensitive arse, ice freak._

It's almost laughable how he's still surprised that such rumours spread already and ruined his hopes of escape to his calm place, for there was never a good day when the Prince was in the Capital. It shouldn't be any different now, even if what he said was, and would still most likely cause mayhem for weeks. _ If you survive for weeks_, a tiny voice in him says. He has no idea if the prince will truly eject him from his position after all. If he does, maybe King David will argue back and order his return. The thought of depending on anyone like a weakling ignites an angry fire inside him, but he chooses to ignore it and resume his thoughts.

If the King does vouch for him, the Prince will surely use that long curling tongue of his, sweet and poisonous, and he'll convince even the council that Simon doesn't deserve what he has, and if it wasn't the King he engaged with, then it's whoever bloody else. It won't matter by then. He'll pick the most atrocious choice and throw it at them, and they'll have no choice but to let him go. Simon has no idea if he should be prepping his luggage for being kicked out and left to wander the city for a place to stay. He hasn't ever left the palace ever since he can remember (not that he's imprisoned, he does politically travel, rarely leisurely, and he does take some rides outside. He just never lived nor made a home beyond those walls.) And he doesn't know how he'll adapt to this new change, but he gathers that if it's this or his dignity in the dirt, he'll choose this.

When the throbbing reaches a peak, almost popping his vasculature out and protruding them from the skin of his temple and wrists, Simon pushes himself from the paperwork he'd been at, records of city spending and medic wards in need of supplies, and he heads out to the southwest wing of the castle where the servants' quarters and storage are placed. He makes sure no one accompanies him and he unintentionally sends some scowls of pain at whoever whispers as he passes through, and soon he ends up at the potion room at the end of its respective hallway. After a couple of knocks, he enters and pushes the door behind with his slumping body, letting out a long exhale and meeting the dark eyes of the woman seated before many vials and an opened fraying books, her small round glasses sliding down the slope of her nose ridge and her head rising to stare at Simon in bemusement.

"Well, hello my lord. To what do I owe the pleasure?" She mumbles with honey-dripping words, her eyes glinting, and Simon rolls his own.

"Good afternoon, Penelope. Do drop the pleasantries."

"Oh but I'm sure that's unheard of, my lord. Oh my, I forgot to bow."

"Penelope." He grimaces and pushes forward, reaching the lone vacant chair by her table and sinking down in it, and Penelope pouts then leans closer in her seat. 

"Fine fine. You're no fun teasing when you're like this. Is it the nightmares?"

Simon blinks at her and shakes his head then nods, and it earns him an unamused look from her.

"Well if we're friends as you say and wish us to be, and if you're the Simon I know, you should be aware that you simply can't hide things from me because I'll just know anyway. So shoot, I'm all ears. It's better than going for trial thirty-two with 'Mow-cut'. It's disastrous."

"What's that?" Simon frowns and watches her sigh and say "It's a potion the king has requested for keeping his beard trimmed evenly as if mown. My power is being wasted on men and their appearance-complex."

He laughs, a startled sound and a surprised mind, trying not to imagine the King's thought process in deciding he indeed needs such a thing, and he admires how Penelope can speak freely about the royal family when in private, uncaring for anyone but her opinion and whoever can earn her respect. It's not that he lacks the free will, God knows he'll keep babbling with her about how cocky the prince is day and night if she and his duties let him, but he can't imagine speaking ill of his king. Not only because of his regality but because he's as close to a father as he's ever gotten. He can't possibly think of him badly.

"Sounds tiring," he shakes his head, a smile lingering before it falls, and he drops his eyelids heavily. "The nightmares are a part of it. I couldn't sleep last night."

"And the other?"

He shrugs and opens his eyes to give her a pointed yet suffering look, pleading her to just understand without the need to voice it all, and Penelope sighs loudly.

"So he did something, didn't he? I mean, there's talk all over the castle, but we both know rumours get out of hand and become way too wild. Tell me, are they true?"

"Mostly…"

"Damn." She grimaces and leans back. "You almost hit him?"

"You know what he said. I… I lost it and only realised what I was about to do when he dumped his wine over me then ordered me to get out. Now it's a thing among the servants and guards and whoever works in the castle that I-" 

"I know it's not true, Simon." She reaches over and grasps his hand, and he squeezes back with a shuddering breath.

"Not everyone knows that. Some will believe. Some will wonder. Soon, it'll reach the king's ears and I'll be doomed to some castle drama that I've had my fair share of before and wished it no more." 

He tried to keep his tone collected, but just as he spoke the words out loud it struck him how utterly fucked he'll be if it truly becomes common talk, and that the only person he tries to prove himself to will be utterly disappointed in him. It makes the cold creep up his toes and land in his chest. He shivers.

"The King knows you, Simon. It's just a rumour. There has been worse about everyone here, including the king himself. Don't worry." She pats his hand with her other free one then withdraws both, moving back to shuffle through her vials. "So you want a sleeping potion. Did you finish the one I gave you, or is it not working?"

He manages a faint smile and shakes his head at her, leaning forward to rest his chin upon his palms. "It was perfect, that's why it's finished and I am suffering without it."

"Dumb git, you should've told me earlier." 

He laughs again and accepts the purple liquid she extends to him, placing it in the pocket of his clothes, and he kisses her cheek in gratefulness. She swats him away though he can see the smile on her lips, and he sits back in comfortableness as he lets her recite her own encounters the night before, and how the ambassador of Amaria to their country had insisted to offer her a dance and didn't budge until she accepted. "I managed to convince him he's the one who can't dance, not me. It worked, and in return, he offered me another so he can further learn." 

He chuckled and noticed the faint flush on her cheeks as she spoke of him, but didn't comment on it as he was content to listen and lose track of his own thoughts.

\\\\\\\////

Now dressed in more formal attire, cuffs laced and ruffles on the front of his shirt and beneath his sage jacket, Simon heads to the dining hall where another formal dinner was taking place, and he greets the king, council, and several lords with a bow before seating himself down in his own seat next to council Abrahams who gave him a strange long look then shifted it away to the rest. Simon tries pushing the crawling feeling back and acting nonchalant and gullible to whatever must be going through everyone's minds at finally seeing him now. His place next to the council was one of the highest-ranked lords, too, so the animosity from the rest coupled by whatever it is going on made the air thick to inhale. Only the King seemed unaffected by it, as well as Travis seated opposite to him and giving him a bright welcoming grin. Simon holds out his goblet by habit and accepts as a servant fills it with wine, and he grins back at him and lowers his head in greeting. The food piles before them shortly, and by the end of it the Prince does make his second grand entrance, except this time with less crowd to witness its extravaganza, and fewer women to swoon over it. To be fair, Simon can't scratch out the last part, for men as well sometimes tend to get enraptured by his aura, proven now by Travis who no matter how many times Simon tried to prove to him that the man was a snake beneath the roses, still now gazes at him with an absolutely charmed anima. 

Simon bites down the urge to groan and roll his eyes, resting on just nudging his foot beneath the table and earning a sheepish smile back. Prince Basilton walks with a raised chin to his place by the right side of the king, seating himself down, not a strand out of place and not a crease in his clothes, and he lands his gaze upon everyone before him apathetically. Travis swoons more and Simon grips his goblet and raises his downcast head after everyone does and takes a long gulp.

.

"I hope your highness enjoyed the ride this morning. I heard you've mastered horse riding and hunting the past year." Council Renely mouths pleasantly, and Basilton casts him a short glance before resuming cutting through his meal.

"I've learned both and mastered them long before. It's just that I had my biggest hunting trophy months ago."

"A 200 pounds wild boar! So it's true then. Your highness must be as strong as you are fast."

Basilton seems to war between appreciating the compliment from the Lord of Sormir and hating the attention, but he gives him a nod nonetheless and a raise of his goblet.

"I'm sure our Prince will enjoy his last year with no harsh duties to the fullest, now that the crowning is near."

"I expect so." The King says, leaning and taking a bite of his roasted potatoes stuffed with meat. "He must already feel like riding off to Borak as soon as possible to salvage every chance he has."

That earns a laugh from the table, and Simon winces then dares to steal a glance at the prince, only to find him smiling as well. This startles him immensely, almost horrifyingly, and the prince catches his gaze and holds it, his grin only widening then. Simon feels goosebumps running down his spine upon his bemused scrutiny.

"That'd be such a shame. We hardly ever see the prince anymore." Travis boldly says, gazing directly at Basilton who cocks his head to the side and averts his gaze from Simon to study him. "But I guess now that it'll only be a year, we can wait and then be able to serve him daily. Borak is too far from Hfraj." 

"Don't worry, I'm not going anywhere." The prince says with a dismissive wave of his hand, and almost everyone on the table freezes in place. A clatter is heard from the King's side and Simon sees his fork hitting the plate with an unintended fall, and the council looks amongst themselves. Council Abrahams, however, was the one to speak.

"Pardon me, your highness. Does that mean you'll be staying in Watford?"

"Yes. You can't expect me to know how a Kingdom is run when I spent most of my years away ruling a province that houses roughly six hundred commoners and do nothing but hunt, eat, and sleep, do you?"

Looks of uncertainty and agreements pass over everyone's eyes, and the prince drawls further, putting on his best charming smile that Simon knows is well-practised. 

"And of course, what best tutor to observe and learn from but our King? I'd be honoured to spend the last year here and prepare myself for the coronation." He directs his gaze in the end towards the King who had gripped his fork back and kept it tight in his hand, his face slightly irritated, and Simon can understand the feeling. The idea of facing the Prince every day after everything is like a harsh slap to the face. It's the assurity he needed to know he's definitely being kicked out of here, and _soon_. The King must know how venomous and double-faced the Prince can be.

"Are you positive about this, though? You've left your city uncared and unprepared for your permanent departure. You might be playing with fire there, hoping Borak will understand and forget such an action."

"I did inform them. I've made all the necessary arrangements to be able to reside here, and I've got the aid of the city in my hand. I appreciate the worry, though, but I've learned from you, your majesty. You will not be disappointed." He says as amiably as possible that one may wonder if this is truly the same person who nearly spat at Simon the night before, and the hand around the fork in King David's grasp tightens before the tense energy disperses and he nods, addressing the prince and the rest of the attendants.

"That's wonderful, then. I'm sure the Prince will learn a lot by taking such a decision."

"Thank you. I am sure I will." Basilton smiles again, though now with a hint of shrewdness only Simon glimpses from the twitching edges of his lips, and they all resume their meal in only occasional chatter.

\\\\\\\////

When all that was left to be done is engage in talks if wanted, or leave, Simon disengaged himself from a conversation with Travis when some of the lords left as well as two of the council. Travis looked up and his lips curved down slightly, but he nodded his understanding when Simon said his headache is getting worse, and he said his goodbyes once Simon stood, bowed to the royals and remaining attendants, then headed out.

He makes his way back to his chambers, not caring to check if whispers or attention has been gained by his departure and grumbled walk, and once he reaches the room he shuts himself in and hurries to reach up for the neck of his jacket and ease it down. A few more tugs and working fingers and the laces and buttons there unfold as it opens up to his linen cream shirt beneath, which he unhooks as well to escape the suffocation of the ruffles there. As he does so, his mind wanders to the strange dinner and the unusual good mood the Prince was in, if he can call it that, and for what reason will he be staying. If he really knows him, he can bet this change of plans brings no good news. The look he gave him, a wicked grin dancing on his lips all the while, makes it almost inevitable. 

He winces, shutting one eye against the throb in his head, and he turns around abruptly when the door knocks and a shying servant bows and murmurs in a low voice.

"My lord. The Prince requests your presence." 

Not orders, Simon notices. _Requests_. 

He frowns.

"His highness? Where?"

"The terrace, my lord. He's there."

Confusion fills him as he stares at the servant straightening up and looking at him expectantly, waiting for an answer to deliver back, or hopefully the Lord himself, so Simon sighs exasperatedly and sinks his face into his hands. 

"Tell his highness I'll-" he halts and shakes his head, hurrying once again to makeshift a semblance of formality back into his attire, though he's aware it's half-arsed and its deficiencies visible, but he can't bring himself to care that much. He's probably being summoned to be told he's to hand in his emblem and step down from his position, so looking all sorts of fancy won't earn him a plea. He follows the servant out instead, dragging his feet reluctantly behind and crossing his fingers on remaining calm and collected, and not ending this (unofficial) meeting with his fist centimetres from the Prince's smug face and his own with wine dripping from it. Once they reach the terrace, the servant retreats and disappears, and Simon is left standing by its entrance and one of the stone pillars, the Prince's back to him as he rests his elbows to the railings and gazes beyond the castle walls. 

When he feels the presence behind him, however, he turns and meets Simon's haunted expression with unreadable silver eyes that reflect the moonlight into them. Simon grimaces at how perfect he looks, because how can someone be this perfect even when they're about to deliver the harshest of words. He knows for a fact _ himself _can't be. 

Basilton takes an automatic step forward before stopping, seeming to realise what he's doing, and he reels with a scowl that's directed to the side rather than Simon himself. The act startles Simon further, and he gulps before noticing he hadn't bowed, so he does.

"Your highness. You asked for my presence." He says, voice monotonous and back straightening, and he sees the prince giving in and marching the several steps separating them to stand directly and a few inches apart from him. 

"You look abysmal."

"I-" Simon blinks, once again struck by the Prince's rudeness in the worst of times, and he begrudgingly casts his eyes downwards and sighs. "I apologize, your highness."

"Are you apologizing for your face? Really?"

"If it pleases you, I suppose." He lets their eyes meet, and he sets his jaw stubbornly as he replies. If he's going down, he might as well do it with some of his dignity left intact to meet word with word, and to not kneel to whatever he says or does. Basilton seems to notice the change, the defensive stance Simon has taken, and he sighs softly before avoiding his gaze on his own.

"I was angry yesterday. My mood was foul, so were my words."

"Your highn-" the gape Simon is giving must be awfully ridiculous, because the prince grimaced with visible twitches and shook his head, stopping him from uttering a word even if in surprise to his unusual sentiment.

"A wise Prince- A wise King, and a wise man, is a man who acknowledges his wrongdoings. That is all I'm willing to say." He says before turning and walking back to the railings of the terrace, giving Simon his back again and clutching the stone with both hands unconsciously. 

It's not an 'I'm sorry', no, the Prince will never blatantly apologize and ask for forgiveness, but this was as good as an apology. Even better, it came from _him_, alone, willed and prepared, and the prince is not casting him away. He's apologizing to Simon, in his own special and outrageous way, and he's feeling shy over it. The thought draws a wide stupid grin on Simon's lips as he remains where he's standing, headache forgotten and curls whipping back against the breeze.

"Are you going to remain standing there like a dimwit?" 

It's not 'Leave'. It's not 'Go away'. 

It's still not 'Stay', but Simon hopes that the Basil he knew till the age of thirteen will return. The one who would laugh and grab his hands, pulling him where he wants, and the one who'd plead "Please stay" when Simon's out of reach.

So, he walks carefully to the adult version that's so different from the young memories, and he rests both forearms on the stone as he gives the expanse below them a quick glance before landing his eyes on the Prince instead.

"What?" Basilton spits out, frowning without turning to face him, and Simon shrugs by his side.

"What happened? What made you that angry?"

Upon the question, Basilton seems to freeze a moment of comprehension, as if unable to believe Simon indeed asked that, though it's in surprise more than exasperation. He doesn't say he's stupid or gullible not to know, instead he shakes his head tiredly and mumbles.

"You'll have to figure that out on your own. Though now that I'll be staying here, it won't be that hard to guess. Soon."

"What does that mean?"

"You ask lots of questions lately. Do you ever know anything for yourself?" 

"Occasionally." Simon grins, and Basilton rolls his eyes and falls into silence, sparing him a short searching look then turning his attention back to the spots of light on the city beyond. If they'd been higher, they would've been able to glimpse river Highbreth at the far end, maybe The Arches as well, but what comes clear to the eye now are the lights from dozen warming fires in Windbarrow and a few from Clearhorn. The high walls of Morgana's gate offer the end of their hindsight, and beyond that is complete darkness. Simon finds his way back to the destination of his gaze, taking in the tense way Basilton is standing in, the blowing of his black hair impossibly and perfectly behind against the pleasantly chill breeze of the night, and the only visible expanse of skin on his upper neck beneath the golden collar, and he smiles. 

Basilton, however, seems to have crawled back into his own palace and shut the doors, too lost into his own mind to notice anything changing by his side, so Simon gives in to the exhaustion and the seductive pull of the knowledge that he finally has the cure to his insomnia, retreating a few steps wordlessly back, and he walks away to his own chambers, leaving the Prince behind with his serpentine thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM BACK.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess it's a weekly update now >.<  
The usual thanks to every Kudos left. Every single one is truly appreciated :')

**Chapter 3**

“Simon”, the voice had called, desperately, it’s tone echoing through and through till nothing else could be heard. He recognized the voice, even when it’s been nearly eleven years since he’d heard it last, it remains imprinted in his mind like a brand that may never heal. He turned around to it, to the invisible force luring him in, and he saw a smaller and brighter version of himself throwing a ball in the air, red and gold, and catching it with an outstretched palm like it's the easiest thing in the world. Smile wide, eyes glinting, he continued his game and only paused when the call seconded. 

It felt worse, not the familiarity of safeness but the ache of pain, and her auburn curls were by the young Simon's side then, and her arms pulling him close. He wanted to call out, replace that image of himself with the current one and demand those arms around himself as well, but the moment his lips parted, all he did was scream. 

So much screaming. So much pain.

So much gleam.

"He's just a boy!" Her voice echoed once more, yelling at someone or something, but he can't fathom the figure when he's burning from the inside out like a torch that it's practically roasting him alive. Him, his younger version, and all versions that will ever exist. Because that's what he is, power. Power and destruction. It'll always be pain.

Simon realised it was a dream, yet not before his tears had already drenched him and his arms fell limp from exhaustion, and he woke with a start for the third time in three days. It wasn't like Penelope's potion wasn't working (Aleister forbid, her powers never fail), it simply worked too well. It cured his insomnia alright, but it didn't take into consideration that it means nightmares won't stop and that he now won't be able to wake from them. The experience wasn't a pleasant one, and Simon was left with a distant mind for days that even the guards and servants took notice of. When Bradley handed him the list of palace guards and the ones who arrived with the prince, Simon had stared at him blankly and offered no reply. It gave the poor young man a shake, for he was too shy to repeat himself for his lord. Gossip magically shifted from what they were to 'The lord of Watford is suffering from The Prince's inexplicable demands for the upcoming Ball' and the horrible other of 'The lord of Watford is now apprehended by having the Prince he pined over now knowing his secret affair with the King.' 

It was rather ridiculous. Sometimes he wonders who really comes up with such ideas enough to believe them. Of course, though, he knows, and he's determined to push their head into the dirt now that he finds it unamendable with the king seated on his throne before him and looking down on him with hooded eyes full of suspicion. Simon gulps, standing with his hands behind his back and his fingers clenched to rein in his real apprehension. He wills himself to look as collected as he wishes he was, and he bows down so low his back lets out an embarrassing 'click'. 

"Simon." The King mutters, and Simon knows from the way he said his name alone that nothing good is coming out of this summoning. He straightens his back and casts his eyes downwards, unable to meet his.

"Your majesty."

"You seem out of it, lately. I hope matters aren't too much for you to handle?"

"I'm perfectly fine, your majesty." He knows King David doesn't mean to belittle him, that he's truly worried and they both know why he would be, but Simon feels the pit of his stomach boil with something akin to anger to the entire situation out of embarrassment.

"I see. One has been hearing a lot of whispers as of recently in the palace, so one is bound to wonder, Simon." The king says his words with narrowing eyes, and Simon immediately flushes crimson.

"My king…! I-" He shakes his head vehemently. "I wasn't the one starting such gossip. I can't be. And over my own self and your majesty? That's atrocious! I would never. The servants must've misunderstood."

"As to their recollection, this has already been insinuated with you and Prince Basilton. Do you deny that?"

"I-... No, your majesty."

"Ah." The King leans back, face dark, and his eyes slide over Simon in deep scrutiny.

"But it wasn't meant like that. None of us would dare to tarnish our King's regality."

"It was dared. Rumours are on and about, framing us in that ridiculous image. Where did that even come from?"

"Er… Your majesty, I wouldn't wish to raise commotion and ill-thoughts between royalty," Simon starts. His mind whirls quickly over how to resume without putting someone else, especially Basilton, before the canyon instead of himself. He knows if it came down to it, he'd take the blow and claim there was no other way, it has always been his strongest suit anyway. Wear the blame as if it's your own, and do tailor it to perfectly fit. He'd then work on its small défauts and overlooked deficiencies, and he'd patch it all up to perfectness. The King always admired that about him, he'd said. He told him a true hero's morals always push him to do the right thing, even if it puts him in danger. Simon would like to think he's doing what's truly right.

"I am sure it's also been circulating that the Prince is involved in this, but what really happened or said is nothing of the sort. The prince was in a foul mood and he scolded me, and that's it. We harbour no animosity as of now, of course. I would never bear any ill-will to his highness."

"It's alright, Simon, if you despise him. The Prince seems to have a long way to go to be a true rightful king."

"The prince is a quick learner. Everyone is enraptured by him," _ Unfortunately _ "They'll follow him in a heartbeat. He chose his decision well, as to adapt to the capital and to the ruling. I'm sure everything will go smoothly."

Humming was his response as the King regarded him curiously. Simon shifts in slight discomfort under his gaze and cringes as he replays his words back into his head. Quick learner, enraptured, and a good decision. Part of him is despising that it's all true, despising _him_, but the other part is discreetly proud. It's something like telling everyone the boy you kicked pebbles with in some alleyway when you were five is now the greatest musician in town, even if you mean nothing to him. Sometimes, he wonders if that's what he is to Basilton. Nothing. 

_ No, insufferable git, you're a nuisance _he hears Basilton's voice in his head hissing, and Simon scowls at the floor.

"Well, we can only hope. You know I'm dependent on you, Simon. You're my most trusted member of this palace, and I'm voicing my concerns aloud to you."

"That's an honour, your majesty."

The King stands and lets out a sigh, one hand of his stroking his blond beard rhythmically, almost thoughtfully, before he descends the dais of his throne to where Simon stands. His piercing eyes hook onto Simon's gradually widening electric blue ones, and they eventually droop slightly and find longer intervals between their blinking. It's so ethereal, the feeling is, and the sight of King David placing a hand on his shoulder, oh very comforting, leads Simon to release a short yet satisfying breath.

"The prince is in need of guidance. He needs someone loyal to look over him and to be able to accept me helping him. To tell when he's being irrational, and to rein him back."

"Yes." Simon mouths before thinking. He can't really will his mind to, anyway. It makes perfect sense. 

"And I can entrust no other with such a mission but you, Simon. I know you would never let me down, you never have."

He was about to say 'Yes' for the second time, but the large doors to the throne room swing open and long slender legs clad in Royal Blue tights and long laced golden boots walk in elegantly, bringing in an air of confidence and humming electricity with it. Simon blinks back and frowns, slightly dazed, and he stares at the prince and the area around as if he's unsure where he was and what he was doing. Basilton meets his glazed eyes for a minute as he approaches, looking nowhere else, and something faint flickers over his face in a second before he alters his focus to the king who's standing with his hand still on Simon's shoulder.

"Did I interrupt anything? I suppose I can leave." He says it with a slowly growing smirk, and the King nearly scowls. However, he withdraws his hand and waves it airily over them as he walks back to his throne.

"We were merely discussing important matters. My words are delivered through, now. No need to leave."

"Ah. Good."

"Rare of you to seek me on your own, Basil." King David drawls, leaning back in his seat and eyeing Basilton's face that finally betrayed some emotion of disgust. The Prince, though, sighs loudly and presents both opened palms forward, shrugging and mumbling carelessly.

"What can I say? I never change, too. I was simply looking for Lord Snow. Now that you've said your meeting is over I can take him with me."

Simon frowns at the challenging glares both of them directed at each other, then he clears his throat. It's probably unwise that he did so, he should've remained as silent and non-present as a chair, but being closed in with a lion and a snake isn't exactly something to take lightly or simmer in. The Prince turns his gaze to Simon and arches one eyebrow, not quite scolding him for the rude interruption but not applauding him for it either, and Simon gulps soundly before aiming for a quick bow.

"I am happy to accompany you, your highness."

"Good," he says with finality and shoots the King a smirk. "Excuse us, your majesty." And with that, he turns heels and walks out as elegantly as he did walking in. Simon hurriedly follows, managing not to meet the king's probably disappointed face, and he retraces his steps down the hallways and into the grand ballroom, not empty but filled with four servants arranging ornaments and utensils over the large side table. He knits his brow in confusion, unsure what's going on (which isn't something common, unlike what history likes to say. He is the lord of this capital and this castle. Things shouldn't be happening without his knowledge.) and he stops short when the Prince does, right before the table. Simon watches as the Prince lays the tips of his fingers gingerly over one of the ornamented goblets, tracing it, then moves over to another one. His face is contoured by the filtering light through the high painted glass windows, charcoal black hair falling over his eyes, and he looks to be concentrated on whatever before him. The sight of it floors Simon for a moment speechless, flashes of memories passing through his head of a similar expression on a young Basilton's face as he looks down on the metal tray Simon managed to sneak from the kitchen, their assortment of collected bugs and worms on top, and he eyes them all too seriously as he wonders how to sort them that Simon laughed at him when a ladybug suddenly flew in his face. The urge to flick a finger over his nose now the same way the bug did, just to startle such an open expression from him, overwhelms Simon for a second. However, Basilton takes the lead on that, and he startles Simon instead with suddenly speaking, eyes still glued to one goblet with Rubies ingrained in its gold rather than the royal Emerald.

"You're staring."

Simon's eyelids meet for a couple of times before colour pinks his cheeks and he looks where the prince is looking, biting his lips. "Pardon me, your highness."

"Is my face too much? Wondering how such beauty can transpire adoration despite the slithering tongue?"

"I- no. That's not…" Simon shakes his head and sighs. "I dare not. I was just nostalgic."

"Nostalgic. That's a nice word" Basilton hums, letting the goblet down from his hold and touching fingertips over embroidered handkerchiefs instead. The use of gold silk with all sorts of colours, even if it's gold with itself, still looks too mesmerising that if the prince is trying to choose one (Simon gathered that that must be what the Prince's doing) it'll be hard to. Patterns vary from the traditional winged goats and stars to swirling lines of old magickal runes, but the prince's fingers halt over one that has a dragon instead, touching it delicately, and his face sets, like that's what he chooses. "I reckon you do it a lot if that's the reason for every time you stare at me or that despicable painting." The one with the prince at twelve years old, Simon gathers. He flushes more to the realisation the Prince has seen him staring at it (and he does so for quite some time). "What are you nostalgic over? Pray tell."

Telling him his exact thoughts would earn him a negative response for sure. How can he tell him he's been thinking about the times being a prince and the royal harpist's son didn't mean a thing when they both played in the gardens and sneaked out at night. When Basilton, or Basil as how he once loved to be addressed, would find his way to Simon's room at night and grin when Simon's mother shook her head in exasperation and let them both stare out the window and play mindless games. 

"Old days. Way before things changed." He says instead, knowing that Basilton will understand. And he does, judging by the shift in his expression to something incomprehensible and unreadable. 

"Oh." Is all he says before he walks away and around the other side of the table, examining cutlery that's dipped in gold. Simon stays transfixed, watching him warily from across the expanse of the table, and when it feels too open and exposed, he follows suit to the other side, standing a couple of feet away, however. 

Basilton's tone comes out low and private, almost intimate, as he smooths a finger over one sharp knife and lowers his lashes fractionally. 

"I am not that twelve-year-old anymore."

"No, your highness. You're not." Simon says in the same tone, his feet itching to step forward. "Neither am I."

Basilton nods, still not looking at him, and he gestures for a servant to come forth before pointing at the Ruby goblet, the dragon handkerchief, and the matching Ruby cutlery with just a "Those.". The woman bows and mumbles "Very well, your highness." with her red braid sliding over one shoulder to touch her freckled face, and something close to softness moves over Basilton's face as he urges her up and allows her to depart. Simon arches his brows and follows her retreating figure with his gaze before mumbling. "Oh. She's the one you always request to attend you."

"Leila. A fine young woman."

"A _ pretty _ young woman."

Basilton's eyes glint and he finally meets his gaze, ends of his lips twitching.

"That's true. She is rather pretty, isn't she?"

"She is." Simon says, not understanding why his stance had wavered between offensive and defensive, and why exactly is his face wearing a frown. It's not a surprise knowing the prince has been choosing the same maiden every year to attend to his personal matters. The ones that involve dressing, preparing a bath, or seeing to cleaning his room when he departs. Some words here and there fancied she attends to it while he's still in it, as well, and the thought didn't particularly annoy Simon then as it does now. Perhaps because he truly saw her now, with her bright hair and constellations on her skin. Her piercing blue eyes. He really shouldn't feel this, whatever the everlasting hell this is, and he shakes his head to will it away and focuses on the table instead.

"What you chose doesn't follow with the royal emblem. There isn't one single green. Are you certain about this?"

"Am I _certain_? I chose them, you pillock. Of course I'm certain."

"The King won't be happy with it if he isn't informed beforehand."

Well, that certainly wasn't the correct thing to say. The mischievous look on the Prince's face melted down to complete vehemence that Simon's heart raced immediately. His instincts told him to run, for he'll be flogged in all the word's meaning within a matter of seconds, but his feet rooted to the floor with his stupid morale of never running and never stepping down. If danger approaches, he faces it head-on, and he does whatever to survive. That's what he's been doing for years, he won't stop now.

"_ I _ said these will be presented at the Ball, and _my _word is to be taken with. I don't _care _what your little incompetent mind dares to think, you daft. This Ball is in _my _name, for _my _return, and I am not receiving any orders from you or your-" The words spill out with hot stinging venom from Basilton's mouth, face uncharacteristically red, before he stops short and exhales, a hand running over his face. Simon ventures the next word would've been _ King_, and that the Prince was wise enough to halt. It doesn't bode well with what the king has been telling him only moments before.

"I apologize for my insolence, your highness." He says because there's nothing else to say without poking the beast with a stick, and Basilton lets his hand down to regard Simon lengthily and eerily stoic before he turns away and to the table again.

"I am surprised you haven't brought up the rumours till now. I thought the moment we'd cross paths you'd plunge into a whole raging rant on how unacceptable it all is and how you'd wish me to put an end to them, considering the fact you already think I am the one behind them."

"What?" Simon's frown deepens, and this time he does take a step forward. The glint returns to the Prince's eyes, though now with an unpleasant glimmer, and he shrugs. Simon takes another step and clenches his fists behind his back, praying to whatever Gods to stop him if he snaps. "You can't be. You'd never-"

"Wouldn't I? That's admirable."

"Did you?" _ Did you plan for them to exist when you left the hall? When you arrived here? _

"Did I?" Basilton's brows rise and he lets out a snort. "Did I plant guards outside specifically to spread such things? No. That's way below me. But I did gamble on them being there when I hounded on you? Well, it was rather satisfying seeing that I'm never wrong."

"Why…" Simon growls before he can stop himself, and he shuts his eyes and steps back with effort. _ Why do you always ruin the moment when I think we're finally getting close again? _

"I don't have to explain my actions to you."

"Yes, _ your highness_. You don't." If Simon was wondering before why the Prince had asked for his presence, he now doesn't. It seems fairly obvious that _this_ is what he's been aiming for, antagonising him, and as predicted he did take the bait. Simon sighed and dropped his gaze, not in defeat, but rather out of spite and anger, and he murmurs in the most collected tone he can manage.

"I've informed lord Fares we'd love to engage in cloth trade. Your highness seemed to take an interest in their quality. Would you like me to request their merchants for fabrics to be chosen for the ball?"

He can't see it, but he feels those grey eyes give him a long odd look, silent before they move away as he speaks. "Sure. Preferably in the next couple of days."

"Of course. If I'm not needed, I'd like to excuse myself."

"Fly away." 

Simon nods, more so to himself, and he heads out without a look back. 

\\\\\\\////

Finding time to take an evening stroll across the castle premises without worrying about senseless quarrels in the servants' ward or problems outside Morgana's gate or in Wind Barrow seems like a rare event, but once it's there Simon claws at it with hands and teeth. So, when it happened to make an appearance, Simon took the chance to stroll pleasantly in the evening breeze while Bradley accompanies him rather shyly, his hands clasped behind his back and his gaze respectfully dipped down. When they pass by the open training arena, targets set on wooden pillars by its end and positions marked out by stones on the ground, Simon finally breaks the silence as he strays his gaze to the darkening sky, washed out in more oranges and purples than pale blues. 

"Did they leave?" 

"Ah-yes, my lord. The prince had chosen what appealed to him, and the royal tailor is setting on finishing the attire in time."

"Perfect." 

"You… You seem stressed." 

A smile tugs at the side of Simon's lips and he turns to look at him. "I am always stressed, Brad. What's new? Let's just hope the Ball proceeds as expected."

He can hear Bradley murmur an "Amen to that" before he whispers lowly. "The… talks. They must exhaust you, my lord. I've never seen everyone in the palace so preoccupied in long."

"They're like leeches feeding off my suffering, I guess. Nevermind it, it's the least of my concerns as of now. Which reminds me I need to deliver some harsh warnings to Devon and Nialler for the upcoming event. It will do no one any good to add fuel to the flames."

"Wise words, my lord."

"Oh stop it. We're just conversing." He swats him on the arm, and Bradley flushes red then smiles at his feet. Simon casts his eyes away and to the rose garden, touching a red rose while he passes through the stone aisle, and he instinctively looks up to see the Prince looking down from his private balcony at them. Upon being witnessed he retreats inside the room, translucent curtains hiding him from view, and Simon rolls his eyes then shoves his hands into the pockets of his garments. The mutually comfortable silence stretches for as long as they both reach grass and tall trees out of the small western gates when Simon hears a voice close to his ear.

"Look who's here."

"Penelope!" He breathes out in surprise, taking a step away and bumping awkwardly into Bradley who almost tumbles over, and Penelope's laugh rises into the air. The happiness rolling off of her offers the only mercy he'll give, and he apologises to the startled young man before glaring at her. "Why are you here?"

"Lady Bunce." Bradley hurries to bow with widening eyes once he realises it's one of the palace's most respected members after the royals and lords, and Penelope waves a dismissive hand at him. 

"Oh do rise. I'm just gathering some herbs. I didn't expect to see you here, both of you."

"We were having a stroll. It's a lovely evening."

"The truest thing I've heard all day, mind you." She chuckles and leans forward in a snap, her eyes tracking the planes of his face closely and her fingers rising to touch under Simon's eyes, confusion filling hers, before she retreats. "That's… odd. My potions never fail. How are you still not sleeping?"

"I am sleeping, Penelope…"

"No, Simon. Something is wrong."

"Well, yes. What isn't?"

"Simon."

"They work, Penny. They work too well that I can't wake up when it gets too horrible."

Bradley, sensibly seeing that the conversation was getting too private, gives them both a soft smile and bows before taking his leave, and Simon thanks him in his heart before turning to a shocked Penelope.

"They didn't cure the nightmares." She announces a fact. Simon nods.

"Silly me. Of course they wouldn't. My bad." She sighs and throws her head back exasperatedly. "I'll need to give you a new one. Sorry about that, Simon."

"Don't. It's fine."

"Is he giving you a hard time?"

"The worst."

"Guess we'll have to rely on the Ball to relieve all that." Her lips give a lopsided grin and Simon rolls his eyes at her. "Which, talking about that, will Lord Cordero be there?"

"Hmm?" Simon's attention perks up and he looks at her with arched brows, maintaining his gaze for a long while till she flushes and scowls at him. 

"What? Balls are some misogynistic events aiming at objectifying women and categorising them by some men with masculinity-complex. At least Lord Cordero is funny. It'll make it worth attending."

"Ouch, Penelope. That hit right through the ribcage."

"Look here, git, you spend such evenings following Agatha's heels like a puppy. I am not acting as your guardian with the leash again."

"That…!" He points at her, holding in laughter. "Is not true."

"That _ is _ true, honey. Either have the guts to court her or I'll have to slip a truth potion into your drink. Though that will be risking you a death penalty over insulting the prince, so that's that."

"Precisely. Aleister knows I want to."

She pats him on the back and picks up her woven basket, some leaves and flowers set inside, and she smiles at him warmly. "She'll be there, she told me so. I don't know if there'll be another prophecy, but she seems to sense one coming. Hopefully it'll be good this time. See you, Simon."

"Good night." He watches her leave and sighs, walking back to the castle. Thankfully, no one seems to stop him in his tracks with an urgent matter, and he enjoys the calmness with a private smile up till he reaches the hallway to his chambers and sees the two infamous guards whispering to one another. They'd been the Prince's private guards at first, leaving with him to Borak for a couple of years before returning on his command to serve in the castle. It did raise some questions, but the prince dismissed it all the next birthday, saying he had sufficient ones and those two were well befitting the king. They'd been then assigned to Simon by the king himself, and no disagreements were uttered. 

They straighten upon their lord's arrival and put on their blank masks, waiting for him to pass by, but Simon stops a few steps in front of them at his door and raises his chin. The action leads his eyes to droop, hooded with fair lashes and quiet rage, and their tied up control seemed to falter a little under the scrutiny. 

"Devan. Nialler. I see you're been rather excited the last couple of days."

"Lord Snow…" they both mumble, offering no more words of a reply, and Simon presses on. 

"What's the secret to that, hm? Impatiently waiting for the Ball?"

When they both seem to be uncomfortable enough to think it wise not to reply at all, Simon takes another dangerous step forward and lowers his voice. "I've let the rumours pass without a hassle. Don't test my patience further." Was what he said before slipping into his room and letting the doors shut behind up. 

Simon wouldn't allow his mind to tread into anxious territories and places that are too dangerous to explore. He wouldn't let himself think of his nightmares or the haunting screams that merge with his own, not when he reaches over under the bed and pulls out the latched box that he unlocks to take out a hairpin decorated with a centred Critine gem. Its gold metal reflecting well with it. Complementing it. He smooths his fingers over its surface and smiles to himself, a soft little thing, and the thought of seeing it in Lady Wellbelove -Agatha's- hair does calm his fretting a little. It's a beautiful hairpin. He doesn't know if he's glad he doesn't fully remember it in its original owner's hair, or that the forgetfulness has got him spiteful. It has its own dark irony that the only thing left of his mother after she departed this world is the one thing he can't remember seeing her with. A hairpin. Simon sighs and puts it back in its place, silently promising it a new blonde owner soon, and he closes the lid over it.

Penelope is right. He has to do something about it. He can't sit around forever waiting for the perfect chance to present itself while he does nothing to hasten it. Events nowadays prove that he may leave everything in a matter of seconds if things do crumble, and that will mean he then may never be able to see her again. If she wasn't the Oracle, the one existence that keeps people going and royals on their tiptoes, he wouldn't have seen a lot of her to begin with. Though she doesn't like her power, her bouts of clearance and spoken truths of the future, Simon always finds it deeply fascinating. It wasn't the Prince's gambling and games of chance, nor is it the surety of a sword's weight in his palm as he directs it wherever and however he wishes. It was justice, as far as he's allowed to venture on such a word. It's unfiltered truths and clarity, and it writes history and future altogether. If a prophecy was spoken, nothing can stop it from happening, and it took fools to prove so. 

_ She seems to sense one coming _, Penelope had said, which can make him warm all over in excitement or truly cower in fear. Not only him but the entire palace. Suddenly, he was glad this news isn't common knowledge.

  
When the day arrived and the palace doors were wide open for courtiers and whoever privileged enough to be there, hallways were packet with servants catching robes and leading everyone forward to the ballroom which soon was filling in as well. If Simon wasn't the one making sure everything was in place the same morning he would've been overwhelmed by the countless flickering flames of the candles upon golden chandeliers, the candied nuts and wine arranged pleasantly on the tables by the wall -all in the chosen goblets and plates- and the sight of a Cithara on the other. The woman seated by it had dark hair pinned up in some articulated twists and pins, and her eyes were as dark as night. That ought to calm him a little, and it did, so he swiped his gaze to violinists and bassists readying their instruments for the dances, and his eyes caught with ones staring right back at him. His lips form a faint smile that gradually broadens and he unthinkingly closes the distance between himself and the milky skin draped in a flowy white dress that made her look like an angel. Missing the wings. 

He bows, reaching over to take her hand and bring it to his lips to plant a kiss on the back of it, and when he looks up he sees her head tilted to one side and her eyes regarding him curiously.

"Lady Wellbelove. It's lovely seeing you."

"Lord Snow." She says, though pauses with her words and really _looks_ at him. Whatever she would've liked to say died on her lips, however, and she smiles instantly and watches him rise. Simon smiles back, letting go of her, and he turns to gaze at the ballroom in its entirety. 

"Seems like everyone is quite joyous about the Prince's return. We haven't had many parties in a while."

"Yes, that's true."

"All the more work to you." She muses, not with sarcasm, and Simon lets a sigh escape and nods.

"All the more work to me. Soon, there'll be preparing for the coronation, and the prince is very… particular about his tastes. I have to thank our calm capital for that. Nothing seems to happen here."

"Nothing…" she whispers, almost to herself, and her eyes give that faraway look as if she's seeing something he isn't. Which isn't always untrue. She's the Oracle after all. 

"What is it?"

"Nothing. Ah, nothing. I spaced out. I apologize, my lord. That was- disrespectful."

"No, no. Not at all…" He purses his lips over a smile, trying to show her that it's really alright before he hears giggling near them and sees Lord Micah Cordero scratching the back of his head with a shy smile as Penelope laughs at something he might've said. Her canary lace-chested dress complements her skin and eyes so well that she glows, and distantly Simon thinks whoever wins her heart will be a lucky man. She can be a lot to deal with, but she's the truest he'd ever met and that meant something. 

Penelope catches his gaze and grins, pulling Micah over unabashedly by the hand, and Micah immediately bows to Agatha Wellbelove. 

"My lady…"

"Lord Cordero." 

Penelope smirks wider and hooks her arm with Agatha's.

"The Ball isn't so bad."

"It isn't? I remember you saying otherwise." Simon earns a playful glare from her, and another pleased voice exclaiming near him.

"Simon!" 

He never regretted telling Lord Travis to call him by his name. The man always looked happy to see him, and the sound of it rang in the way he says it. It makes Simon's chest warm to hear, for it gives him hope that one day, someone will be over the moon to call for him like that. Despite who -what- he truly is. It's a fantasy he likes to indulge in, sometimes.

"Travis!" He calls back and they clasp shoulders, grinning at one another. He extends his greetings and bows to the others, the smile never fading, and he faces the dais with a sigh.

"The Prince. He didn't attend, yet."

"You know the prince. He'll burst in here any second now." Penelope waves a hand with a 'pfft' sound. Micah laughs.

"His maids must be glamouring him, still. Not- not that he needs it. The prince definitely doesn't need it." He draws his brows together with a faint blush and Simon resists the urge to groan.

"He's too handsome, I agree." Micah nods along.

Before Simon could change the subject to a more amiable one the doors to the wide room open and, per usual, the Prince makes an appearance in his overly extravagant garments of a scarlet jacket laced all the way from wrists to elbows, neck to navel, in gold silk. Simon grimaces and looks up, then his eyes helplessly drop back down to study his moving body and intentionally and sinfully swaying hips. Basilton fixes the group with a cool stare as he walks down the emptied aisle the crowd had formed, and he ascends the steps to the dais. Women, all ranks and ranging beauties, approach one after the other, and they take turns bowing down elegantly before his seated form while he maintains his stoic face like a mask. Penelope exhales in defeat before she walks off with Agatha, both bowing to their prince, and they withdraw to the back. Basilton waves for the orchestra moments later, and the music starts.

It was with effort that Simon finally gathered the courage to ask Agatha for a dance, but he did, and he had the thought pressed to the back of his mind to ask Penelope if she had something to do with it. Agatha simply smiled and accepted his offered hand, stepping with him past the dancers and to a vacant spot where he hesitantly placed his free hand on her waist and waited for hers to reach his shoulder, then they started to dance.

Their eyes met a couple of times -his and Basilton's- and Simon made sure to keep his expression as neutral as he can before returning his attention to the woman he's dancing with. She's gorgeous, delicate, and absolutely charming in her own mysterious way. She keeps studying him like a puzzle, though, and Simon doesn't mind the stare. He just loves the amused faces she keeps on making when he twirls her and lands her on his arm, or when he picks her up with ease for half a turn then puts her down to resume the traditional dance. They both laugh near the end of it, and the sound of it makes Simon giddy with joy bubbling in his chest.

He did that, he thinks. He made her laugh.

By the end of it, when music dies down and dancers either stay where they are for a second or scatter around, Simon grabs the chance and kisses Agatha's hand once more. She laughs again, clearly pleased, and Simon's stupid grin brightens his entire face. Till it darkened, and hushed silence fell while sole footsteps approached them to stop right before where they stood. He felt Agatha's hand slipping from his, with her body, and he felt her bow with a faint muttering of "My Prince." out of her rosy lips.

Simon had heard (and read) many describe shock and apprehension as coldness, and freezing water poured down over your head. To him, it was never like that. Everything was hot and burning, and all he felt were flames and smoke filling him from the inside out. Coldness never existed to him, and he isn't sure how it even feels. Though, he may have a fair idea about it when he sees how Basilton is regarding him, eyes as ice, and how stiffly he gives a curt lowering of the head to Agatha before talking in his own melodic voice that's bound to enrapture anyone within a ten miles' radius. 

"Lady Wellbelove. I'd be honoured if you'd join me for a dance?"

"A-Ah. Of course, your highness." She rises and blinks up at him then at Simon. She gives Basilton a smile, and he draws back a loose strand of her golden hair behind her ear then offers his arm. Agatha blushes then, way more than she ever does with Simon, and she easily holds his offered forearm and accompanies him to where they'll take their dance. To everyone else, the Prince was hooked by lady Wellbelove's beauty, and being the Casanova he is, he couldn't help but approach her and have a taste. To Simon, he _knew_. He knew his reason, and it sickened him so much he felt nauseous. Basilton didn't want Agatha, not in the sense, but he aimed to take what Simon wanted, judging by how he kept shooting him triumphant glances and smirks, and he cares not if Agatha will be hurt in the middle. He wishes to tell her to stay away, to keep a distance from Basilton and to never allow herself to be used this way. However, when their dance ended and he thought he may have that chance, Basilton took her hand and walked her to the ballroom's veranda, having a private moment, and Simon's heart sank to his feet. He may have pushed his way through scores and sneaked behind curtains. He may have been seen, and talk may arise. He doesn't care, though. He follows them there and he scowls when all he can see from behind the pillar is Basilton's back and the hem of her dress. Not her face, not any of her.

When they remain like that for long, when Simon was ready to think maybe it's nothing, he sees him leaning down and his head dipped towards hers. He didn't need to see her face to realise what's happening, and madness started flooding in his veins and right to his core.

He wanted to scream, for real this time, and he wanted to barge through and pull her out of his grip and away. He wanted to finally curse him and not care for the consequences. He wanted to finally land that punch, and he wanted to watch him recoil when he realises there's no wine in the world nor his hands that can save him then.

Alas, his body held him back out of instincts, and the bolt over that hideous part of himself split open and poured. The throbbing returned, worse than it has been for quite some time, and Simon stumbled back reflexively before he widens his eyes and runs back. He fights for a way through, gasping, and he nearly stumbles back when a hand catches his arm and halts him in his steps.

"Simon! What's wrong?"

"Leave me, Penelope, please!"

"Not until you tell me." She frowns, gripping him tighter, and Simon growls at her before she yelps and lets go of him, cradling her hand gingerly to her chest as if burned, and her eyes gape at him in frightening alarm. It hurts, the way she looks at him, the way everyone seems to look at him right then, and the pain in his head won't stop. He bolts out of the ballroom immediately and out of the castle hallways, ignoring any concerned calls from guards and servants, and he makes his way to the only place he can be himself without fearing any interruptions. A place with no judgments or irritants. The closed sword training area welcomes him with an acidic breeze, and Simon heads straight to his sword up on the wall, taking it down and unsheathing it hurriedly. All his mind fixates on frantically is that he needs to wind down and lose this hysteria. That he absolutely must.

He swings his sword at a haystack tied to a post, once, twice, ten times. He doesn't stop, nor does his strength lessen, but when he gives it another hard jab anger doesn't seem to dissipate and images of Basilton kissing Agatha flood his mind. He tries pushing them back, begging them to go away, to please have mercy, but more kept coming and nightmares loved to intervene. Everything meshed together, twined to choke him, and soon he found his knees buckling under his weight and hitting the ground. His sword slipped from his grip, clattering by his side, and when he managed a look down to his palms they were glowing a fiery golden hue.

"No…" he whispered helplessly, broken and weak, then in a blink, his body snaps backwards, his eyes roll to the back of his skull, and everything goes all light before it goes all black.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for not posting anytime sooner. I know I said this would be a weekly thing, but college has been a pain in the ass lately and I had no time to even breathe. Finally I have some time off to return to this, so here I am!  
This chapter was hard to write for many reasons.  
1- it's a transitional from what happened last chapter to the fucked up shit that'll happen in the next one  
2- I am hyped for the next chapter so I didn't know how to go patient with this one heh...
> 
> Anyway! To whoever's reading, thank you!

**Chapter 4**

The first thing Simon's mind comprehends and focuses on like a first start of a string is the tingling in his fingers. It radiates slowly up his palm, his outstretched arms that are laying artlessly on something hard -harder than his bed-, then settles at his solar plexus. The second thing is the pounding in his head, faint and consistent.

He tries giving his body a couple of experimental orders, moving cautiously where he lies with eyes closed, and when he's content with the result, save for a bit of dull pain, he lifts his heavy eyelids to be welcomed with blinding light.

He squints against it, groaning, then he adjusts and tries to decipher where he is and why does it not feel like his usual bed. His questions are soon answered when he realises he's in the training stables, sawdust in his hair, and that the morning has arrived with no memories of last night beyond a glowing light. Another groan, louder this time, pushes its way out of his lips, and he makes an effort to sit up and inspect his pathetic state.

His clothes are rumpled and bunched up at places, tainted yellow from the filthiness of the ground, let alone the smell. He can smell the smoke, a faint thing wafting the air around him, hardly recognisable, but he knows it must be more obvious, overwhelming even, to others than himself. His sword is discarded to the side, where it fell from his grip the night before, and the hilt looks a bit ashen now that he _ really _ looks at it. _Shit_, he thinks, _ Oh Aleister _ . The curse flows more freely when memories of what lead to this press his mind, and Simon makes a pointed attempt to push it all to the back of his head to save everyone another _ going off _.

He rises and limps out, breathing in the cool morning air with relief, then he runs down the gardens to the palace, and then to where the baths are. He avoids attention and questioning eyes as much as possible, sneaking behind pillars and flattening against walls, though some frown in curious concern when they see him before jolting back in alarm. 

That's an expected response, he sneers.

Once he finds the private baths, empty at this early hour, he strips his attire with no ceremony and soaks them drenched in the hot water that's usually prepared . He pours as much scented oils in the bath as he can, making sure to mask the smell of himself on the clothes when he soaks them, then he discards them away before sinking in and engulfing in warmth. He lets the water wash away the residual scent of him, leaving the smell of lavender there to to cover his skin, and he starts to methodically wash every part of his body clean. It doesn't take him long to, for bathing was more of a necessity than a leisurely activity, and when he's done, he lets himself soak a little more before deciding on getting out.

It strikes him then that he didn't plan his situation through, arriving there with no spare change nor something to be covered in, and he curses himself as he simmers further in the heated bath, waiting for a servant to arrive for the routine call. 

Another fifteen minutes and Simon was too wound up to relax in the undeniably too good of a bath. He keeps on lapping his feet back and forth, clenching his teeth, and doing his absolute best not to let his loud thoughts roam. They'd choke him, tingle his hands and clench his chest tight, and he wouldn't be able to stop his anger once it arises. He keeps bolting door after door, pushing them sealed, and when the mission seems too hard to maintain in the dead silence, footsteps approach the private baths and halt. He gazes at whoever entered, smiling sheepishly when the brunette servant flushes all over and stammers to bow, and he waves a dismissive hand at her formality.

"It's alright. Can you please fetch me my attire? I came here on my own." 

"Of course, my lord." She nods, eyes to the ground, and retreats immediately. It does not take long before Simon's usual maidservant to arrive and help him with dressing himself up, green jacket and a white shirt beneath. Sage colored pants. She trembles all the while, fingers sloppily trying to do all the buttons exact, and it's so uncharacteristic that Simon purses his lips upon realising he must be the terrible force making everyone terrified. The looks from everyone he encounters after that are well placed proof of the fact, for they follow his movements through the palace hallways and down corridors like a bomb about to explode. He wishes to calm them and say that such a thing is a foolish fear, but he became exceedingly aware that it may as well be true.

The only person who gives him a warm smile despite the anxiousness edging it is Bradley, standing awkwardly by Simon's desk while his lord frowns down at nothing particularly at all. He'd entered moments before, bowing slightly and biting his lips when the lingering smell flares his nostrils and ashens his face. Simon tried mustering that cheerful tone he usually reserves for him, but he feels too drained to find the will to. He wonders when exactly will his helper succumb to his nature of protective curiosity and ask, and as though the young man had heard his thoughts, he speaks.

"No servant, or soldier, is able to near the training stables. They've barricaded it as dangerous territory for now, but it's hard to push everyone off the matter when chatter arises."

Simon nods gravely, lifting his eyes to Bradley's who shies away from them, and he sighs.

"You know."

"People talk…" He mumbles, though he's aware his lord isn't asking but merely stating a fact. However, he urges to explain his deduction further, taking a reflexive step forward. "I just caught a word here and there."

"Despite it being a rare occurrence, they still seem to recognise it." Standing up and walking to the sole window in the room, Simon glances down at the heaps of figures standing near where the soldiers are guarding the place where Simon went off. Servants murmur to one another, hands rising to hide moving lips from view, and maids tremble next to each other before some are ushered away to their daily duty. He sees Nialler frowning at the scene then turning away, possibly relaying whatever he heard back to his guarding partner for a gossip material. 

"You haven't witnessed it before, have you?"

"No, my lord." Bradley bites his lips again when he nears, his colour fading further, and Simon turns to face him and startle him again. 

"Stop approaching if it's making you dizzy."

"It's just- yes, I apologize."

"Take a seat."

Bradley does as he's bid, seating himself rather stiffly while he shuffles his hand to the inside of his garments. He produces a scroll afterwards, setting it on the desk wordlessly, and Simon turns to him before arching a brow and touching the rolled up and wax-sealed sheet with his fingertips. "Watcher Herald?" He asks and Bradley nods, nudging a dark lock of his hair back in black- a habit of when he's about to deliver some information, and when he's ready to pull out his serious persona. 

"This month's crop's report. Along with the trade market and mercenaries state."

"Good." Simon nods, taking his seat, and he breaks the seal to the parchment with a hum. Watchers were planted in every province in Veladan, placed at the very top rank of it beneath the lords, and their job is to do everything the lord can't do due to restrictions. Simon knows it's hard to leave the castle at all times and roam around gathering information that'll help him run the place as he should. Watcher Herald has been helpful so far since he took the position, though he's a few years older than Simon himself and exposed to frequent behind-the-back babbles of how humiliating it is to receive orders and bend the knee to a 'twenty three year old prat'.

Sometimes, Simon wishes to sneer at how hypocritical this hierarchical system of theirs is, preaching for a twenty year old prince to his ascension and impeaching the rank given to someone as hardworking as Simon. It's rather infuriating.

He wanted to give the report a quick glance, rooting further a worry he'd garnered over the last couple of years, but the moment his eyes meet with the very first words curled in ink the doors to his work room gets knocked twice upon then swung open.

He'd be damned, he thinks, for it's the King himself, and if anything can be taken from his expression, it's that nothing good can be the reason of his visit. 

Bradley hops to his feet, bowing down so low that Simon nearly winces, and he smartly excuses himself from the room. The doors shut behind him, leaving the air silent and tense, and though everyone seem to run away from Simon the moment they take a whiff of his current smell, King David gets drawn to him like a moth to a flame. He takes his slow steps nearer to him, eyes widening fractionally before they settle for a glare, and Simon gulps.

He knows why he's here. He knows that look. It's the same one he gave Simon when he'd asked him if there's any way the Prince can stay in Watford, back when he was eighteen and the fifteen year old Prince left his room after telling him of his soon departure. The same one he gave him when Simon crumbled at the first whispered rumor. The first mistake. The first insecurity.

He recognises this look too well, and it scorches his already alight chest.

Disappointment.

"Your majesty." He whispers the words, unaware that he still hasn't bowed, hooked to the gaze, and the King stares him down with slits of eyes till Simon averts his gaze and drops it to the floor. He wouldn't ask him if it's true. He can already smell it on him.

"Why?" He asks instead, voice dangerously low, and Simon grimaces and shuts his eyes for mental support.

"I don't know. I was stressed, that's all. Nothing serious happened."

"This isn't serious?"

"I-" He startles and purses his lips. "That's not what I meant, your majesty. Of course it is."

"What happened then?"

"Nothing major, your majesty. I was just anxious."

"So it doesn't involve the crown prince?" He drawls, arching his brows at Simon whose eyes snap up to him, and Simon's head short circuits for a few seconds.

As much as he hates whatever Bas- the prince is doing, he can't take part of this power play both the prince and king indulge in. Beneath the table play was never his area of expertise. He preferred head-on fights and the comforting weight of a sword in hand. His tongue never a weapon, but merely a salve to detract himself from whatever threat may arise on his unintended command.

He squares his shoulders and summons all the good memories he keeps of the prince in that lone dark room in his mind, opening the door to it and letting it flood to make him sound sincere, and he speaks.

"Not at all, your majesty. The prince has nothing to do with my own agitations. I've been lacking sleep and the headaches are persistent. Stress snapped it all."

"You do realise you're putting your own integrity as a lord on the line for this, don't you?" The king eyes him cooly, his glare hardening. "Are you saying you can't do this? That you're not fit for lordship and can't control your powers?"

_ This is not the Simon I've raised, _ he hears the words even when they've gone unsaid. The king wants his resolve, his complete loyalty and hard will. He wants something Simon strives every waking hour to keep and strengthen, hoping it would earn him the praise he longs for even from himself.

"I've been given this job, and I'll do everything in my power to see it through with all that I have in me. I promise you, your majesty, that nothing of the sort will happen again. I admit to my failure and own up to it, but I refuse to announce my defeat just yet."

Those seem to be the right words to say, and Simon wasn't even trying. Every word found its way from his core and broke free, running from his lips like a prayer or his own name, and the king's expression softens to it. This look now is the one he gives him when Simon's being stubborn, but also brave. It's the sort followed by 'Oh, Simon.', and sure enough the king says them. Simon deflates, the tension uncoiling from his shoulders and back, and he gives a sheepish faint smile to indicate he's truly okay.

"You have to know, Simon. Your are the most powerful magician in Veladan. Maybe in all the countries combined. No one has ever seen such force before. You shouldn't waste it, and you shouldn't reveal it like some cheap trick. Anyone would want to salvage that power, and you're putting yourself at harm."

As much as the fact flatters Simon, it leaves his heart to sink when the dangers of what he is settles in his mind. He nods, because there's nothing else he can do, and he bows when the King pats him once on the back then takes his leave. His last words were that he should beware of the Prince. That he's not the innocent beauty he seems to be, and he is bringing his own downfall. Simon couldn't agree aloud and say he knows it all first hand, but he thanks his king nonetheless and stays silent till the room falls into muteness once more.

\\\\\\\\\/////

When Simon reaches the outer gardens and the hoard of people gathered still at imminent smell of smoke wafting from the training stables, he finds a path immediately cleared for him by how everyone took their steps back to allow him to walk. Eyes widen, breaths catch. He soaks in the unwanted attention as he makes his way to the finely trembling soldier by the entrance to the stables, and he gives him an apologetic smile. The man looks like he's about to faint, his skin ashen gray, but he stands his ground with willpower alone, giving a curt nod to his lord and speaking evenly.

"We've secured the place, my lord. No one has gone inside, and nothing was touched. The aroma is steadily decreasing, but the effects are still palpable."

"Thank you, Gorge. Clear the area. I'll take care of it." Simon pats his shoulder and feels the soldier tremble before withdrawing and walking to the place where it all happened. He gives one last glance to the area behind him, making sure everyone is within a safe distance, before he inhales and opens the doors. 

He can't really smell himself or what he's done, but he's sure letting the smoke escape then was effective because gasps were emitted behind him once he did. He steps about airing the place, opening windows and more wooden doors, letting everything with any indication of what happened be erased. He stands in the middle of it all, gazing around him with a bite over his lips, then he hangs back his sword and exits. George was there to meet him despite the orders, his form swaying, and he bows with fearful awe in his eyes at witnessing his fearless lord step into this black hole unscathed.

"Let it air. Just go inside and rest."

"Yes, my lord." He says before hurrying away, and Simon sighs as he watches him go. The crowd filters down to just him and the wind as company, standing with his gaze grazing the far gardens and their blooming red roses glittering in the morning sun. He moves, his feet dragging him back to the palace and what his responsibilities urge him to do, but he's caught by surprise with the aroma of bergamot and cedar invading his nostrils from the side. He stops by one of the pillars, lips parting, and he turns to land his gaze on the prince leaning on the second stone pillar, arms folded before his chest.

His perfect brows arch at Simon's dumbfound, still leaning in his black tights and linen poet's shirt, and Simon blinks rapidly before bowing his head without uttering a word. Prince Basilton beats him to it, though, his lips curling at the edges and his voice a humouring drawl. 

"You've caused a ruckus, I see."

"I apologize, your highness."

"I hope it's not because of the night before?"

Simon grits his teeth, trying to hold back a frown at the obvious direction the Prince is trying to steer them to. He sees them again in his mind. The way he leaned down to her, and how she fitted against him. He sees the way those silver eyes hooked to him and how he'd risen to the bait, watching as they dance together and the prince smirks his way. Simon never asks for much. He made sure to stay out of unnecessary business and only do what's asked of him, so he doesn't understand the need the prince finds in stealing every little thing he has just to make his life miserable. If he hates him, he wishes a clear word of it. 

Bitterly, he wishes to just be abolished from his position without further simmering and torturing wait. 

He sighs and shakes his head, masking his emotions the best way he can, and Basilton regards him wordlessly for a while before he drops his arms. He doesn't inquire further about what happened, or if this is the power Simon must be possessing. However, he shrugs carelessly to it all and detaches himself from the stone.

"Seems you're not handling your job well, then. Cracking under pressure like delicate wax."

"With all due respect, your highness, I am operating well. Please point out my lacking when they show."

"Why should I wait for you to lack? A mistake will be done by then."

Simon snaps his mouth shut, now frowning deeper, and he resigns to the headache arising in his head and the fact that he won't ever win a verbal war between him and the prince. He meets his gaze and says nothing, waiting impatiently to be dismissed, and the prince seems to notice it because he frowns as well and waves a dismissive hand at him.

"Well whatever. I won't dampen my mood over this. Just be consistent with your work, I won't need such discrepancies tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Simon mutters before he can think it through, blinking confusedly at him and trying to figure out what that means, and Basilton's smirk makes another appearance as it dances on his lips and lights his eyes in a wicked gleam. Simon can't help but think that despite all the bewitching of his elegance to everyone around, he looks the most enrapturing with his mischief and the true person that lies beneath.

He's an infuriating bastard, yes. An annoying prat that suckles off the annoyance he causes to him and how vexed Simon gets. But the way his entire face lights up with every reaction he gets off him, every angered groan, turns his features into sadistic beauty that Simon can't help but admire. 

This makes him hate him more.

He adds a new power to the list.

5- Absolute sadism.

"Why, you haven't been informed? There'll be tournaments in two days. It'll all be set tomorrow. It seems that the council was very pleased with knowing I excel in certain sports, along with lord Travis, and now they decided a grand tournament in my name shall take place." He waves another airy hand. "That's all organised by you, of course. You're the lord of this castle."

"Of course." Simon bites back a curse, smiling at his prince with daggers in his eyes, and Basilton looks further amused by it he actually lets out a small laugh.

"I heard you're a good swordsman. Though your clumsiness since teen-hood proves otherwise, I'm willing to give it the benefit of doubt."

And fuck it if he didn't rise to that bait. He clenches his hands and sets his form, saying he won't back down and he'll win against them all, and he watches as Basilton's eyes narrow with his smirk intact before telling him 'We'll see'. When he excuses himself and walks back inside, he finds his blood singing in his veins and his headache throbbing loudly in his brain. He makes a quick visit to Penelope for a painkiller potion, downing half of it down to her shaky horror, and he leaves with his hot headed decision set in mind. 

He'll prove him wrong. Not only Prince Basilton Pitch can be perfect.

\\\\\\\\\/////

When the sun settles more confidently in the sky, blazing down at every surface, Simon climbs his horse and rides away and out through the castle gates. Bradley follows close by, his nerves better controlled than hours before for the winds have diluted Simon's scent and washed it away. He silently thanks the universe for finally doing him one small favor, and he rides past Windbarrow and reaches Clearhorn. 

Leaving the palace never was as frequent as Simon wished it to be. Some days he hoped he could take off outside those walls and roam free, end up on the markets at the south end of Clearhorn where he can greet each and every seller. He remembers his visits when he was younger, he'd go through every food place and taste every baked goods, grinning widely when someone offers him a cherry that he hangs on to as he walks back with his mother holding his hand. 

His first custom shoes were from there, the ones he picked the design for himself. It was the Prince's tenth birthday, and Simon was so obsessed with the young boy that he begged his mother to let him design his own shoewear to match the royal insignia. She told him it's unheard of, but he insisted at least on just the colour and she resigned and brought him there.

He smiles now at the memory, Bradley by his side giving him a brief glance and averting it away, and they see Morgana's gate from the distance before turning right. On the next wide street, they see the tall building centered with some carriages lining it's sides. People make way for the two passing horses, eyes drinking in the sight of glory and expensive clothes, and Simon stops near one of the carriages before dismounting and handing the reins to one of the guards there. When Bradley does the same, they head for the doors which open before they even reach them. A servant ushers them inside to a meeting hall, its walls lined with hunting trophies and golden mantles. 

Simon arches a brow and gives Bradley a look, and his helper shrugs and gestures for the chairs. They seat themselves and wait, but they're not left for long before Watcher Herald appears and bows to them with an excited face.

"My lord! It's a pleasure having you here."

"Watcher Herald, the pleasure is mine."

"Bradley." He says before directing his bow to him, and Bradley mirror his movement before they all seat themselves. Simon regards him closely, watching him blink back in wonder and confusion, and when the silence stretches for long he produces the report sent to him with a sigh.

"You report. I won't beat around the bush. I've noticed that each month for the past three years the crops' productivity decreases. This was confirmed by the decrease in bread making, jam, cattle feeding, and so with it milk and cheese."

"My lord-"

Simon raises a hand to silence him and resumes, his other fingers massaging his temple. "I've reviewed the castle expenses and usages, and nothing was demanded more than usual save for every birthday of our prince. It can't be an increase in our demand, unless we are taking from already decreasing resources. River fish too are in a decline."

"Yes, my lord…" Watcher Herald sighs and nods, gesturing for a servant to pour some wine for his guests, and Simon accepts the goblet and sips. He gives his helper a glance, smiling, and Bradley gains some colour in his cheeks before taking the lead.

"Is it the soil? And if so, why haven't we been informed of it? At this rate, we could go into an ecological crisis."

Watcher Herald purses his lips and leans back, his shoulders slumping against the plushed back of his chair. Simon follows his movements, his eyes a clear blue, though he knows from the way the older man before him let out another defeated sigh that they must be as watchful as a wolf. 

"The river, my lord. The water level is constantly decreasing, as if it's drying out, and the soil is affected by it. We're hoping we can see and fix the problem, so we sent a messenger to Decros, but he never returned." 

"When was that?" Bradley frowns, leaning forward in his seat at the mentioning of their neighbouring north country. 

"Two months ago."

"He should've been here by now. You think they're holding up river water from us?"

"I fear so. It originates there, we're only receivers. And now that the messenger didn't come back, it's making us worry more. I was hoping this could be managed before any news of it reaches the palace, but it seems it's too late now."

_ More like you wanted to prove yourself capable over a twenty three year old kid, that is. _

"Very well. I need every calculated water level, and it's rate of decline. Send another messenger to Decros accompanied with two soldiers. All with weapons. There's a chance he'd been held off by bandits for his horse and supplies." He rises from his seat and the servant rushes to take the wine from him. He hands it over and watches as Bradley hurries to rise, and they both excuse themselves when their orders have been delivered. 

The moment they mount their horses and hold reins in hand, Simon groans and settles for an initial slow walk. Bradley follows with his horse and cocks his head to the side, watching his lord, and Simon gives him a sheepish exasperated smile before breaking into a quick ride.

"Come on! We have some sports to manage."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is not as late as before (almost a week later? maybe?). That's a yay!  
This chapter was so fucking long I nearly gave up at the end. I couldn't simply divide it in two when the scenes are written as one and stringed together, so you'll have to bear with a 9k chapter :'D Sorry amigos.  
Anyway yeaaaah, also sorry about the cliffhanger. Thing's will get bloody and gore from here on.

**Chapter 5**

It's a pleasant day, one must admit, as the sun shines bright and the breeze that passes is cold enough to send a nice chill, but not too much to shiver. People pool and crowd, loitering around the large arenas well prepared and arranged for the tournaments, and some already deem themselves spectators and take the seats bordering it all around. Of course, hadn't it been Simon who overlooked all the needed preparations and made sure everything was how it should be, he would've stood with nails under teeth worrying if things will go right.

He stood by his working room's window for hours, just looking down at the vast land below and beyond, drawing lines in his head and mapping out areas and stages. Later, he took his ideas on paper with Bradley cradling a tin cup of gin by his side, offering him some when Simon massages his temple and sighs. They spent the night of his return from Watcher Herald's mansion plotting how the event shall go and all the necessary security protocols, and later the next morning they discussed it with the head of the palace guards. 

If Simon thought he can finally have some rest after that abominable Ball, then he was utterly and laughably mistaken. The usual two to three days stay of their admirable Prince had passed, and yet he's still here, comfortably lounging on thrones and cushioned benches, his chin held up high as people like Simon worry their sleep just so everything can be done on time.

On a _whim_.

This definitely wasn't supposed to be part of the schedule nor has it happened before. Not in the near past, anyway. Simon, and every other person in the palace, can remember some games that were held under King Malcolm and Queen Natasha's reign, where even competitors from their neighbouring kingdoms joined and had their places and prizes just as anyone. There was unity, and though no one objects nor dares to think King David's rule is unjust or lacks in any way, everyone feels the loss of their past king and queen, and the joint forces that used to be.

Perhaps they should've opened doors to Lothian soldiers and warriors, now that they're already bringing back the games, known for their skills and strength, or Nazakian cunning men with their crafty ways of going about anything. Mrajans could've helped with the setting, maybe joined too, and the thought of inviting Decros's royals over to enjoy the games passes through Simon's head and presents a decent lure. That way, he thinks, he would've been able to set the river issue straight and with low casualties, maybe before anything remotely remarkable takes place.

Alas, he knows his limits, and he's uncomfortably aware that this is the first time he's ever been given such a task since he took over lordship of Watford. If he'd gone all out and things went all sorts of south, it would've been chaos and the absolute end to Simon himself. Not that the idea doesn't appeal to him now, seeing that he'll have to suffer for ages under the scrutiny of his soon-to-be king.

For now, he shoots the area around him a quick studying glance as he fills out his name in certain sports, gives Bradley's, and regards who else will be in the games. He snorts at seeing the prince joining horse-riding and archery, and he shakes his head before handing the soldier manning the small gates to each arena back the list of names. The soldier nods and stands straighter, a hint of respect in his stance, and Simon takes the subtle compliment with him as he turns and walks back to the palace, abandoning watching people fill their seats behind. 

There's still an hour left till the grand start, Simon calculates as he makes his way through the palace hall with a hand fixing his collar snug to his neck, and the ones who don't wish to soak in the hot sun or oversee some brutish amusement lie back in fancy indulgences as servants present them with sweetened nuts and red wine in the great Palace hall. That's where Simon heads, escaping cramped and busy arenas to land in another cramped and busy four-walled hall, plus the elegance (not that that's why he's headed there of course. If he's honest with himself, he can't fathom an exact reason why, and if a hint of it exists inside him, he'd rather not address it at all.). A few heads give him curt inclines and short bows, watching him curiously as he makes his way inside and reaches for a passing tray out of habit. However, his hand stops short right before he touches any goblets, and he retreats with a frown creasing his brow. Surely, if he wishes to participate and prove that he can win, that he's not some useless bugger, he'd need to lay off the alcohol for today. 

For a split second he thinks _ fuck it _, he needs it for the nerves, but then Basilton's smug face flashes before him, smirking and telling him he's a giant waste of air, pathetic and all talk, and Simon's resolve sets straight. 

And just because the git has to be there every minute of Simon's day, even if it's not his face, Simon is brought to a halt by the memory of the Ball and long blonde hair cascading down a white-clothed back. The same hair shine now, though pinned up and coiled around an emerald of some way, and the wearer of it turns to face Simon with wide blue crystalline eyes. He gulps, frozen in place by the intensity of her stare and the memory of what transpired between her and the Prince right after he thought he finally stood a chance, but it seems he doesn't really have that luxury at all. 

He wonders if she knows that it's all a play, a childish and rather sickening game the Prince plays just to pick on Simon and make him ache. Then, he wonders how bad it will still be if yes was the answer, if she was truly indulging in this knowing there's no way she's truly desired by him, and that she's leaving Simon (who cares) willingly to do all that. 

He wonders what will that mean, then wonders if he will want to even know at all.

The dumbfound spell wears off his feet and he makes his way to where she's standing by the tall windows filling the wall, overlooking all the games below. She smiles at him faintly, an elegant bow following once he's near enough to count splotches of gray amidst the blue of her eyes, and she rises to turn back to the window and rest a hand on the crimson curtains beside. He does the same, standing by her and looking down, thinking perhaps he'll spend the remaining of the hour in this silence and finding that he's not at all uncontent with it, but Agatha Wellbelove murmurs in her melodic voice near him and almost gives him a shake.

"It's rather packed, isn't it?"

"The Prince loves an audience." Simon replies, unable to keep his tone as neutral as it should be about the Prince in her presence, but she doesn't seem to notice, or she simply doesn't care. Simon can never guess what living with all sorts of hidden intentions is like, he's always been the heart-on-sleeve kind, and never was he able to tamper down his true feelings long enough to convince. Agatha, on the other hand, simply hums to that and graces her intense stare at space once again, as though the thoughts of her head need an explanation that she's determined to find. He can't blame her, his mind's been bugging him to do the same about everything he thinks and feels, and he's skilled at putting it off every time that it became almost unbearable.

The sudden thought that Basilton may be behind this, harassing her mentally or forcing her to obey, possesses him, and Simon stiffens.

What if she couldn't and wouldn't ever be able to say no to the Prince because he's holding something against her, making it hard to dare and go astray. Maybe he threatened her position as the Oracle, or told her he'll hurt someone dear. It must be it, right? Agatha would never intentionally go along with all this madness if there was no other way.

He thinks he needs to comfort her and show her he guesses _ -knows- _ and that she can depend on him. He wants her to speak and confess her tedious position so he can help and get her out of the Prince's sharp claws, telling him the truth of what's at stake and what he'll have to save. So, he leans fractionally towards her and murmurs in the most agreeable tone he can muster.

"Everything has to go well today, for my sake. Otherwise, the Prince may flay me."

If he had expected her to stiffen and shudder, show a tell on the side of the Prince he must've shown her, he was sadly mistaken. She simply gave a small laugh, shaking her head, then her gaze sharpened back on the area below like she caught on to something. He follows her gaze and frowns, seeing nothing further interesting than the seated men and soldiers fanning the place, and Lord Travis amongst them waving enthusiastically to someone as he gestures towards the still empty ornamented chair reserved for the Prince. He looks back at her, her brows pinched and her lips a thin line on her face, and he feels the tingling of a thunderstorm in her aura that forces him to suck in a breath.

'What is it?' He was about to ask, though he has a good idea what it might be, but Agatha's voice comes crashing into him with a soft tone yet a thousand impacts of heavy stones pushing at his chest.

"_Darkness soon may loom, then comes the blazing light. Truth unfurl and hurl, father he may be, a leader or a knight. Greed shall be his fall, swallowed he'll be without a fight. And love arrives unbidden, hidden in the darkness of the night. _" 

Even if he tried, amassed all her courage and strength that he had reserved for the games and used it to turn away from the calling of fate before him, he wouldn't have been able to. Her words strike him down, like a final period to a sentence, a fact, and all that's there to be done is wait it out as it plays and shows you there's no escape once it's been spoken. Fate. Agatha comes to her senses and realises that too, for her brow wrinkles again, not in confusion or thoughtfulness this time, but simply of apprehension. 

Simon makes a sweeping glance around the royal hall, seeing that no one had noticed anything unusual happening where they stood, all still chattering, laughing, and pleasantly sipping wine, and he looks back at her with a startled face and widened eyes as his mind replays each word back and forth. They roam his mind like a whirlwind, thrashing and causing chaos uninvited, and Simon winces when it gets too much to make any sense of it. His fingers itch for the painkiller potion in his jacket pocket, but he resists the temptations by wracking his hands through his red-rust colored curls instead. 

"I- I apologize, my lord. This was…" Lady Agatha's voice wavers as she purses her lips, fully facing him now, and she bows her head. "I couldn't control it."

"It's a prophecy." And though he did not need her to confirm so, she nodded still. He lets out a long exhale, shaking his head like the muddled thoughts would fall right and left if he keeps doing it fast enough. His feet take him a step back, though he smiles at her ruefully, and he bows his head as well.

"There's no need to apologise, Lady Wellbelove. I must attend the games, wish me luck." And he leaves.

He walks back through hallways and corridors, down marble stairs, his previous worries about the prince and Agatha and all the plots forgotten in light of new and more flustering information penetrating his brain, and once he arrives back at the intended event he takes his seat amongst the lords and right in front of Bradley. The young man offers him a faint smile of acknowledgement, so does Travis. Though the latter was splitting and wide, bordering on manic, and the Lord clasps his shoulder with animation then greets him with a loud cheer. Simon tries matching his tone, a laugh following, and he faces ahead to avoid the inevitable questions of where he was, what happened, and how hard and tiring it must've been to organise the entire tournaments upon such a short notice. He'd play the martyr, except he doesn't think that's a wise choice. Gossip spreads in the palace faster than wildfire, and within an hour the Prince would've had a fair idea about what Simon had implied and what was meant, and today is not the day for risks. Not of that kind, at least.

Speak of the devil, Simon thinks as he watches Prince Basilton ascend the humble replica of the royal dais to his posh chair, his attire as sophisticated as usual, though this time it's more on the white and red side with only gold in the laces and crown. Everyone bows down to him, respectfully, while he seats himself and crosses legs dressed in white tights fit for horse-riding, and Simon parts his lips as his eyes travel up his form and settle on his face. If he focuses another minute on what goes on inside his head, he'd reach the conclusion what he feels is delighted anticipation at watching the Prince participate and woo his crowd with skills Simon's sure he has. Basilton stares back at him, at his long unwavering look that's stuck to his face and hooked to his eyes, until Simon notices he'd zoned out while thinking how his black long hair would fly behind him as he rides, or how his calves would look obscenely and frustratingly elegant as it shows unexpected strength while mounting a horse. He'll look perfect, Simon knows, and he despises him for it. No one will care if the Prince fails in any game if he joins it looking like a walking and breathing piece of art.

Utterly unfair.

Some of the council joins the attendants, already guessing who would join what and who may win. Others just chat with whoever's closest, or take their leave to get ready for the first games, which is why Simon turns around to arch a brow at Bradley and urge him with a glance towards where he'll prepare. The young man sputters, taken aback, and he shakes his head vehemently before giving up when he sees the set expression on Simon's face. He stands and walks away, checking the list from one of the standing soldiers manning the area, and he sighs. Simon excuses himself from his party and goes after him as he heads for the readying tent, pushing its flap up and going inside to watch him take deep breaths and let them out. Bradley smooths his hands down his minimalist clothes, going up and down his slacks rhythmically to which Simon approaches and stops with a grab of his hand. Bradley flutters his once closed eyes at him, flushing, and Simon sighs. 

Seeing his helper so flustered over a game he can easily win endears Simon, to a degree, but the lost look in his eyes threatens to make him feel so guilty for writing down his name without telling him about it beforehand. He knew he'd refuse, say that he doesn't want to put his magic on show, that it's already known enough and in no need of further display to allow more fascination and fear, but he couldn't help but find that he wants to push him to the spotlight. Part of him knows he deserves it, deserves more than sitting among commoners, sleeping in the servants' wing, and being looked down upon just because he's not with the blood worthy of respect and admiration. 

_ This is your chance _ , he'd say if Bradley whines, hiding his powers as usual like he does most days. _ You have the chance that I can never have _.

"Magic wielding, that's the first game. This is already disastrous. I don't think I should go on with this, my lord."

"Bradley, we both know you can win this without a real fight." And he means it. Not everyone knows Bradley's powers nor were they subjected to them. Bradley, on the other hand, groans and tilts his head back, a grimace permanent on his face.

"That's exactly why, my lord. I'll be either shamed for it, or become on display for oglers and interested lords who wish to have me for it. I-" He takes a deep breath and turns to face his lord, pursing his lips and fixing his rumpled hair. "I am quite content with living here and being your aid, Lord Simon. I don't want to be in a position of being taken away."

"Is that- that's why you don't want to participate?" Simon widens his eyes at him and the ends of his lips quirk up a fraction, which Bradley responds to with an automatic one of his own. Part of him wants to abide to his wishes and shelter him from all the possibilities he fears, yet the other more insistent part urges him to keep pushing and have him face it all head on. Wants to prove to him that no one can take him from where he is and who he's with, and no one will force him into anything. It's bad enough that Simon has to live with the sentiment of someone who's against all the luxury and the servants flocking about making sure every need is attended to. He can imagine that they, too, wish to be free of their holds and bounds, and if Simon can't do anything about them all, he can at least protect the man before him with nothing but sheer stubbornness and a sword. 

Bradley notices that look on Simon, the determination rolling off him in waves and waves lightened by the fire in his eyes and the smirk forming on his lips, so he sighs and shakes his head in resignation, taking a hearty gulp directly from a pitcher of cold water placed by a nearby table, and he steps closer to the only exit of the tent where Simon's standing and eyeing him.

"It won't be that easy. I can't just tell them yield and they will. They have to want what I ask."

"Isn't this the beauty of the challenge? Can't you do it?"

Well, if Bradley's straightening back and jutted chin are not enough of an answer, his voice interjects with a "Yes I can." So confidently that Simon laughs. He has no doubt that he'll win, magically, and that he'll entice everyone seeing him with his ways. On their way back to the arenas and the crowd, Simon notices Bradley murmuring something to the soldier with the list, nodding at him with a smile, then making his way to stand on the side awaiting being called upon to, essentially, fight. Or, to put it in a more amiable manner, show off their skills till someone wins. Simon seats himself back next to Lord Travis and Lord Fennis, casting only one glance in the Prince's direction and seeing him looking back directly at him with an unreadable expression then a smug smirk that Simon wishes to wipe it off him with a punch. 

_ Save it. Save it _.

"You don't join any games the Prince's in, Simon. Are you avoiding him?" Travis whispers by his side as he catches his annoyed expression, and Simon waves him off with a sneer while the man laughs. Even if he saves it, he won't be able to let it out on the prince with the cloak of the game hiding his real intentions of just satiating the irked part of him by the sight of the prince. _Just_ that. He focuses back on the game in favour of saving his sanity and preserving all his mind into where he'll go and prove himself, and he runs the rules of each game back in his mind as they unfold. 

The first one to start with is Magic Wielding, where contestants face one on one with no weapons but their own magic to aid. They face off as long as it takes them until someone yells that he yields, and that will be the end of it, announcing the other a winner. Each one will do all they can to force the other into yielding with no fight left in them that sometimes it can get brutal. Simon had witnessed such games before at the eastern villages, all set in the streets as men grabble with every bit of their energy to prove themselves and rise in rank and respect among the commoners, and sometimes soldiers are the ones playing it for the bets. 

Simon pushes down a momentary fear over what he put Bradley through, but he reminds himself that he has to trust the man enough, after all his worries weren't over his capabilities, but other sentimental things. Not that he blames him, though, he gets where his hesitations bloom from. It was a matter of four more minutes before the horns were blown and everyone save for some contestants of the first games were seated. The royal drums and anthem play next, marchers moving across the wide empty arena with their instruments at hand as they play for the respect of their attending Prince looking down at them, and once they were done and retreated, one of the soldiers, the speaker of the royal tournaments, steps forward and gives the usual pleasantries for everyone there. Some people take notice of the fact the King won't be joining them to oversee the games, but only a very few seem to care. The hype being brought on to them by the speaker counting the games and announcing the first one with its participants pulls out a loud cheer, and soon everyone falls into the electric buzz of excitement as each two are introduced and set to fight for a win. 

The first two, A council member's son and a lord, step forward towards each other with flames in their eyes, grins dancing on their lips, and limbs singing with energy. The crowd gives a roar once the match starts, and the soil rumbles below the lord before he jumps away and charges forward with no hesitations. Simon can hear Travis by his side give a low _ 'oof' _ as the lord knocks the young man back with insane strength, but the man steels himself back and clenches both of his grips. That's when the pebbles on the ground shake, and when they shoot to join one another and encase the lord's feet to halt him in place. A loud cheer erupts from the area around and Simon can see the lord struggle with fury slowly building up on his face. 

He's damned, Simon thinks with a private laugh to himself after years of sword training, not because he's trapped, but because he's allowed his anger to show and cloud his judgement. The council member's son's tricks only serve as hindrances with no real impact other than riling his opponent up to see no reason, and his goal looks to be easy to attain as the lord breaks free and charges back at him. He slams the ground with his fist, making a crack that travels to the man, but fails to realise his earth bending can stop it with a flick of his hand.

Or not. Maybe Simon, along with many, underestimated him.

As the earth bender seals the widening crack, the lord catches him off guard with another cracking punch to his side, and the man yelps then falls down, wheezing as he clutches his torso and looking up with wide eyes. However, those pleading orbs turn mischievous as he lets go only for dirt and stone to drop from where he was assaulted, and he flips the lord off his feet unaware to drop him by his side. 

The duel goes on for another few minutes with cheers and yells resounding from the crowd while Bradley shuffles his feet where he stands and look on with a challenging gleam in his eyes that Simon hasn't seen since the night he invited him for a sword fight. The lord wins in the end, after various tricks and more tiring games, and both contestants shake hands before walking off with indignant laughs. The winner, though, kneels before his Prince a couple of seconds as Basilton inclines his head down, and the acknowledgement fills him with a proud glow to his form. 

Next to duel are Bradley and Travis who rises from his seat and slaps a friendly hand on Simon's back, telling him to keep his eyes ahead and watch. He could've told him he sure will, and that he shouldn't underestimate the shy man at all, but he settles for a reserved smile as he watches them both enter the dueling grounds and taking their stances. Bradley takes a deep breath, holds it, and lets it out. Simon crosses his fingers once the soldier tells them they can start.

At first, all anyone sees is them staring at each other, each waiting for the other to take the lead, but the number of people knowing Travis's powers is arguably way more than those who know Bradley's, who happen to not include his opponent. Lord Travis seems to weigh out his options as Bradley's dark gaze follows him, and he sighs when it seems clear nothing worthwhile will come out of waiting. If Simon can guess what he's thinking, he'd say Travis thinks Bradley is simply a weakling set for show. 

"You don't really want to hurt me…" Bradley whispers, scuffling his left foot in the dirt, and he earns a frown from Travis who conjures a spear from stones and steadies his stare at him. It takes him a bit of soaking his words up and shuffling him in his mind to finally murmur back a "Not really. But we have to fight."

Simon immediately grins.

Bradley nods to that, almost pouting, which sets Travis more hesitant but makes him shoot forward nonetheless. Bradley steps aside and trips down, rolling on the harsh ground, and gasps emerge. Only Simon rests back in his seat as he watches what appears to everyone as an attack, but is simply a game set in motion. When Bradley rises, wincing at a bloodied scrap on the elbow, Travis hisses at him.

"For Aleister's sake! _Fight_."

"You wish for me to have a fair weapon fight?"

"Yes!" Travis grinds his teeth visibly together, and before he or anyone knows it, he'd handed him over the spear and conjured another one for his own. 

Hushness falls over. No one dares to speak or point out what's so confusing, while Bradley studies his spear then jabs it forward. His attack is easily blocked and turned about, but Simon had trained with Bradley before and he knows his agility well enough to not be surprised by him dancing around the lord effortlessly. It rouses him, makes Travis irritated, but Bradley smiles at him and says in his low sweet voice.

"You'd hate for me to win?"

"Of course." Travis says with another confused and baffled frown, not understanding what the man is getting at and why is that even a question. He strikes again, harsher this time, and Simon is proud to see Bradley rebuffing it with a twist of his spear the way he taught him with a sword.

"You can't explain why this is taking so long with a novice like me. You're afraid you'll look small."

Travis turns his strikes to blind spots and unprotected parts, though the lethality of it always missing, and his attacks always lack. He wouldn't hurt him. He doesn't really want to hurt him. 

"You want to check if everyone's looking at you and laughing." The sweet voice murmurs again, and Travis unwillingly (or rather, because part of him does want that) turns to scan the crowd, wide puzzled eyes going over everyone and meeting every gaze, unaware of his opponent till Bradley's wooden side of the spear came to land on his head and sent him to the ground. Travis gasps and yelps, totally distraught as a trickle of blood travels down the side of his temple and down to a muddied cheek, and Bradley stands atop him with the spear pointed at his throat. When Travis's palms flicker, about to conjure, he gets faced with Bradley's melodic tone once more.

"You're terrified of me. You're scared I'll push it and you'll be badly hurt. Maybe die." Though his words send chills down some of the attendants who watch with held breaths, his face remain as innocent as he looks when anyone praises him and he gets bashful. The young face and the messy hair a sight so contradictory to what's been spoken. Travis nods sagely, his palm falling to the ground, and he receives a click from Bradley's tongue who just says the simple words right after.

"You want to yield."

"Yes." Travis's words get choked out of him with invisible force, finding their way to freedom and resounding in the arena. "I want to yield."

In a sudden roar, surprised cheers erupt yet again, nearly deafening and heart pounding that Simon has no doubts anyone beyond palace walls have heard them. They keep calling Bradley's name who offers his hand to a stunned Travis looking like he woke up from a bad dream, and calling him something akin to a Siren and a lure. They're not wrong, Simon thinks, laughing when Travis shoots him a baleful glare. He can be very convincing, never planting a seed, but watering the ones already there, nursing them to full bloom. 

Bradley marches till he reaches where the previous winner kneeled, going down the same way before his Prince and bowing his head without daring to meet his eyes. The Prince looks upon him with another one of his unreadable expression that Simon finds hard to adapt to, feeling uncomfortable knowing not what the man thinks and what plots go on in his brain. He can step and find his way around them, surely, if he knows what they are and what to do. It'd be easy. Simon is sure his survival skills can match the hurls thrown his way. However, when everyone is as stoic as the Prince is right now, he can't help but wonder if something worse may happen and he'll be caught unprepared. 

Is he happy with the duel? Mad? Amused? Surprised?

Is he angry that Bradley didn't exactly fight? Is he wondering why someone like Simon is holding lordship while Bradley remains a helper? 

Is he thinking of replacing him? Of taking advantage of Bradley?

When Bradley finally rises, he heads back towards Simon with a shy smile, searching his eyes for any negative feedback to what just happened, but Simon makes sure he looks just as proud as he feels. This instantly brightens up the young man and leads him to cheer, seating himself back behind Simon and thanking him for his faith as discreetly as possible without anyone noticing and asking about it. Simon pushes back the worries again and averts his gaze from the Prince and his frozen face and his perfect lips set into a thin line (Honestly though, who has such pink natural lips? Does he magick them?) and he focuses back on the games which continue with some more magic matches before the other sport is introduced. Horse riding.

Ah. Of course. 

_Of course_ now that he wishes to put everything aside the prince has to be on display before him so all his eyes can do is take in his form and all his mind finds no escape from is cataloguing every move, every expression, and every goddamn fall of his hair, which seems ridiculous to be left that way while he rides his horse in a race. Who does that anyway? Prince Basilton, apparently, with his disgusting urgent need to enthrall everyone into falling in love with him, that is.

If Simon didn't know the previous Queen and her magnificently raven coloured strands, he'd think the prince is magicking his hair as well.

Or maybe he's magicking it to be so soft and glistening as it laps behind him while he descends the dais and makes his way among the spectators to the side of the arena and well past, the soldiers bowing and murmuring to him where to collect his favourite horse from the royal stables, which had been prepared for him. Simon is spared such sight for as long as to turn back to Bradley and ask what he told the soldier with the list, but not long enough to enjoy the prince-free thoughts for the riders have arrived and are taking position along the start of the looping track. 

The others are visibly intimidated by the Prince's presence by their side, competing against them, if they're not wooed first by how casually the young royalty produced a hair band and carded his fingers through his dark strands to pull them elegantly up. Well, at least he's being sensible about it. Not discreet, but sensible. Travis lets out a dreamy sigh by his side and mumbles something about Basilton being the perfect man, which really is a total overstatement. Once again, Simon wishes anyone here can see what Simon sees when he's left alone with the demon-prince. They'd trip over themselves in horror and crashed day dreams. 

To speed things up, he makes a point of _ not _ looking at the prince as he stiffens his calves on the horse's flanks, or as he holds the reins in his well manicured hands as he looks behind dark lashes at the area around him with calculation. He definitely does _ not _note how he softly murmurs to the beautiful black steed beneath him, caressing his equally black hair and neck, or how the horse seems to understand and nod gingerly to every whispered breath. 

When the starting horn resounds, the loud and sudden crash of hooves against ground follows, and every rider shoots forward as they aim to be the first to the end line. It doesn't take much for everyone to realise magic isn't prohibited in this section of the games as contestants shift winds and wet dirt beneath their rivals, but it's common knowledge that anything lethal is strictly and badly punishable. Nothing direct to send a man off his horse and on his neck, but enough tricks to slow them or even stop their course. 

Basilton's eyes shift from who he's next to, to the reins, then to the saddle straps holding him firm to the back of his horse. Breaths catch as they watch someone boldly slash the air beneath the Prince's horse, but Basilton carelessly jumps it off with his steed and lands by the man's side only to smirk and pick speed. Applause. In the distance beyond, a council member murmurs under his breath before the lord margining on exceeding him lifts up a hand to protect himself from some sort of invisible light, his eyes squinted and his lips curling in distaste. It took ten seconds for him to fall behind.

Another boulder that councilman Renley wickedly drops before an elegantly racing Prince, whose form merges perfectly with his horse like he's been born to ride and race, and Basilton dodges it masterfully and inclines his head with a cocky smile his way. The older man flushes and his grin splits his face in two, quite content to see that the Prince indeed is a professional as he claimed to be, before he sets his magic scale higher. Boulders turn to spikes and rolling stones, but when they're all overcome so easily that one would doubt their legitimacy, the man's grin turns to a concerned frown then a look of disbelief. Basilton uses zero magic, but he still was able to pass him by two more riders between. 

It would do Simon good to just admit he's gawking by now, his mouth shamelessly parted as he follows the events with wide attentive and enthralled eyes. Alas, he doesn't. At least he stopped denying it, that's for sure. It's taking him a while to register that this is the boy who ran after birds in the early dawn, barged through Simon's rooms and pulled him by the arms just so he can show him the new worm he'd found lingering on one of the blood red roses. The same boy had once looked at the horses in awe and refused to extend his hand with the apple when Simon sneaked him into the stables, and it had been Simon who smiled and pulled at his wrist to let the boy's small palm rest on a lowered white horse's head. 

He can still remember the gleam twinkling in his eyes at the realisation such beautiful creatures can exist, and how easy it is to touch them and marvel at their hairy skin. He imagines it must've looked like the one Basilton's wearing now as he sears forward with his horse, both as old friends and understanding, and as he involuntarily laughs when he's close to where he wants. 

He doesn't admit this one too, but Simon finds himself smiling as well. If only this Basil is the one he misses-

He wins. The Prince- _ Basil _ does- with his wide grin and his self satisfied sigh, and clapping deafens Simon for the second time, louder than before, as it goes on and on and on, till the riders are off sight. Simon is still stunned in place, the image of the sumptuous and graceful Prince a hot brand in his mind's eye, and he remains so even as he's ushered away to the tent he was just in moments before, and as his sword was thrust into his open palms. He looks down at it, brushing his fingers over the golden hilt and the carved marks, and he takes a deep breath then grips it tight.

A hot feeling coils in his abdomen and throat, telling him how he must win as well, make a statement, prove his worth. He feels his stamina building, his willpower gathering, and every humiliating word spoken with thoughts that Simon can't hear them behind closed doors piling to fall beneath his feet as he steps on them to rise. 

He doesn't look up him as he gets ready for the next Sword-fighting, but he can feel the energy buzzing all around as everyone inside the tent prepares themselves to be dueling, all dependent on their skills and strength alike. Luckily for Simon, magic is not commonly used in such a game, all insistent on proving themselves without the need for anything past their own training, and this thought keeps him calm. As calm as he can be, anyway, for he's nearly jumping from one foot to the other in pleasant anticipation.

However, every attempt at keeping his cool and collect washes away when he's ushered back outside to the loud crowd praising and whistling with heightened spirits after witnessing the entertaining previous games. Sword fighting may be one of the oldest and commonest way of fighting throughout the ages, even though magic became a recent activity that prevailed. These thoughts seem to roam all the minds watching as duelers step forward and unsheathe their blades, taking stances and ready to strike. The arena gets divided in half, each part set to contain a side of the matches, and the winner of each will face off in the final one. 

In a helpless unconscious movement, Simon trails his gaze to Basilton who's back in his seat and watching him with an equally intense gaze, all hooded eyes and ruddy cheeks (from exertion, maybe. He seems to be flushed all over) and Simon offers him one of his brilliant smiles. It's challenging, bordering on smugness, and Basilton gives no expression away for so long that Simon thinks he's ignoring him. However, he winks at the end, a barely noticeable thing, and he smirks with that hint of mischief and equal challenge that Simon has gotten so used to from him. Somehow, this makes him want to win even more.

The first two clash their blades in a thundering ring, forcing muteness to blanket the entire area and attracting eyes to their holders. They step and dance around one another, each showing off their best suits and their strongest traits, but in the end the Lord Michaels of Sormir wins when his blade knocks the other's from his grip, forcing him to yield. The grand opening of the second half of the arena is something Simon didn't expect.

He did predict being the first to enter, the Lord of Watford and the palace himself, as a grandiose show of swordsmanship that they've been advertising of him since words of the tournaments arose. What he didn't see coming, though, is being faced with his helper on the fighting grounds to duel one another. Bradley gives an uncharacteristic and rare shrewd laugh at Simon's expression after stepping in the field, and Simon rolls his eyes. Fine, then. This is what he told the soldier with the list.

When he unsheathes his sword and puts the sheath aside, the weight of the metal and the fitting of the hilt in his palm fills him with calm assurance, just how it always seems to do. Hours and hours of training, of letting off steam, of shredding haystacks as he goes on and over every decision that he needs to make and every problem that needs to be solved, they all mill and crawl, pooling in his gut as he raises his sword ready for a move that Bradley does not make.

He arches a brow at him, knowing full well what the young man is attempting, and when he opens his mouth Simon says in the calmest and most leveled of his tones.

"No. I want to win."

Bradley laughs, good natured, and he inclines his head with a respectful nod before baring his sword as well and moving forward. Their steels meet, strident, and Bradley steps quickly to the side before dragging his sword with him in a circular motion, aiming to push Simon's off his hand. Simon counteracts it with an opposite strike, moving away, then pushing forward to his unprotected side. He knows his helper, and the man he trained, will rebuff it, and he does. He brings his blade down quickly to push the strike aside, and he makes use of his slender and smaller frame to fly like a bird around Simon in a fighting dance. Blue eyes follow him around, noting down every pattern of his and each strategy he's using, and Simon takes his opening when it calls for him. 

"You're worried I won't stand a chance…" Bradley says, wincing and panting hard, but Simon knows his tricks by now and he shrugs, shakes his head with a canny grin, and he strikes again. The victim's face falls off Bradley who laughs and tries to meet his attacks one on one, but it doesn't take long for his sword to fly meters away from his hand and to mingle in the dust. Simon's sword faces his throat, the tip of it a faint prick, and he asks him to yield, which Bradley readily and good heartedly does before hearing the cheers.

The grin plasters itself back on Simon's lips, triumphant, and he looks around to all the familiar faces that's waving back at him and fist bumping the air, promising them a final win before he realises he'll have to kneel by then. 

Oh well. He had that one coming, hadn't he? If he was ready to show the Prince that he's all the opposite of what he tries to tell him he is, he should also be ready to look up at him from where his knee hits the ground, and where he'll be awaiting his acknowledging praise.

_ Fuck _. If he ignores him this time- if he shows him that mocking smirk of his, he'll be tempted to challenge him too, rules aside and shoved up everyone's arses. He won't allow him to take this small victory from him, even if it's just a game and no real win will be taken from it except being told about in Balls and official dates. 

The next two are somewhat a surprise, for though the games aren't exactly strictly for men, women participating are unheard of. Simon can hear Penelope saying in his brain how mysogenic their culture is, and that if a woman wishes to join she can, and no one should stop her. That they should have a shot at that. He'd call for her now to witness the tall blonde woman in her metal breastplate, her hair cut short and her arms muscular beneath the linen of her shirt. Everyone gapes in astound, but not a soul objects nor makes a comment as the two duelers raise their swords and meet face to face. 

It's apparent from the first move how the woman's being underestimated, left in the middle for the man to move around and hold back snickers and snide remarks. His grave mistake, Simon notes, is thinking she cannot possibly be as strong or as smart as him, but it becomes fairly obvious she can handle a blade better than most people Simon has seen today, and she finishes the man off with embarrassing speed. The crowd gets over their initial shock and roar, and the games move on. Simon goes through his competitors just as fast as the woman, Valéry he learns, does, and it doesn't take Simon long to realise it'll be him and her on the final grounds. 

He is proved right when it's announced that both of them are the winners of their respective sides and that whoever gets the other to yield in their final match is the winner of this game. He takes his place, looking on at her direction which strategically is right on the line of vision towards the Prince, and he studies her as she studies him back. Her amber eyes take up form head to toes, and Simon bristles momentarily before he holds his blade high. Without meaning to, his first strike is half-hearted and hesitant, unsure of his move as he's faced with a woman for the first time on the other side. Valéry takes this chance readily and swings him off his feet, and Simon shamefully lands right on his face. 

He groans, his reflexes pushing him to roll to the side before he sees the blade coming for him, he only hears it clash with the ground as he stands back on his feet and takes his sword back in hand. He stops an incoming attack with speed, his blood singing in his ears with the exertion of the previous matches coming back to him in waves of fatigue that makes his lungs struggle to catch his breath, and if it wasn't for the panting of the woman before him as well he would've been immensely concerned. 

Valéry bites her lips, narrowing her eyes at him and seemingly thinking hard of a way to end this as efficiently and quickly as possible, then she looks defeated as she sags right when Simon makes an attack. The sight of her sends him off track for one oblivious moment, just a breath-worth, but it was all she needed from her damsel in distress act. All that Simon gets aware of after a blurry moment is his sword far away, clattered to the ground, and the cold metal of hers a few millimeters away from his neck. Valéry's honeyed gaze regards him coolly.

"Yield." She says, but all Simon feels despite the calming potion and painkillers is the throbbing of his head, and the tingling in his fingers. Valéry's eyes flicker in uncertainty, narrowing on Simon like he's about to cast magic her way when he's cornered in an honourable fight, and Simon tries his hardest to push the feelings down and concentrate on _ now _. The tip of the blade is a breadth away from his skin, if he moves it can sting, even if she wouldn't exactly decapitate him. His sword is too far to drop and grab, and his body is at it's brink. 

His brow creases, hearing her repeat the word once again, irritated this time, and he smooths the lines of his face once he realises it's better to baffle her than look for ways to attack. The only element at his side now is surprise, and that's what he latches on with all that he has. 

He can hear the silence, the held breaths, the occasional murmur of the crowd. He lifts his gaze a bit and he can see Basilton looking back at him, eyes wide, no smirk nor an 'I told you so' there, and he finally takes a deep breath.

"_Aleister fucking Crowley_, just yield!" She hisses for the third time, pushing the edge further to his throat, but her frown turns to pure horror when Simon's hand clamps on the sharp metal and pulls it more. He smiles at her all the while, plucking the sword towards himself, to his control, no regards for the blood trickling down the steel nor for the pain stabbing in his palm, and the shock of the woman before him aids him in taking the sword from her hand as easily as a handshake. When realisation hits her, when her eyes sharpen and her lips curl down in fury, Simon's empty palm lands fiercely on her breastplate, knocking her down with one fluid motion to the ground as he falls atop her, and he circles her sword in his hand before pinning her down with both blade and body.

"No. _You_ yield." He grins at her scowl, watching her struggle beneath his weight to get him off her. Her eyes dart to Simon's discarded sword, coming to the same conclusion he reached that it's too far for a reach, and after more trials and further hissing, her body gives out and she exhales.

"I yield."

Racing came next, then wrestling, then martial arts (which Simon joined in after his hand was bandaged and servants fussed over him. His usual maidservant, Olivia, frowned when she saw the blood and she kept pestering him on being careless. Simon allows her to do so.), and when all reaches the end, they finalise the tournaments with an archery game. 

Simon happily remains in his seat, enjoying the view and the sore muscles of his body that though uncomfortable they remind him of his winnings and how truly astounded the Prince looked when Simon went on his knees. Honestly, Simon expected some sort of negative reaction, a sarcastic one, but Basilton openly gaped at him and urged him to stand, his eyes wracking him then resting on his bleeding hand. Next thing he knew, the Prince was ordering the soldiers to take him away and tend to his wound. Simon couldn't help but follow through.

Now, the Prince mounts his horse again, ready for the last game, and only a few joins him. This form of archery is quite different from what's always been done. Targets are set on the far end of the arena, unmoving, but each rider has to fire their arrows from a moving horse. The game sounds slightly confusing to Simon who doesn't understand the need to complicate such a simple precision art, but from the looks of it, the participants are overjoyed and excited. He gives in to just observing them, watching as the horn strikes and the first horse gallops through. 

Arrows fly to their destinations, missing them, falling short, reaching near or taking a bullseye. And per usual, Basilton shines the most as he gracefully holds the bow up against his lean chest and pulls the string back, unperturbed by the moving horse or the discarded reins, and he fires his arrow in a neat path towards the center of his targets. With every arrow, the crowd loses its mind, and no screams die down even after the game ends with Basilton unchallenged and on the lead. 

When Basilton reaches to the area closest to the seated lords, or Simon specifically, while he makes his rounds among the applause, he slows his horse and meets Simon's eyes with wide blazing ones, the gray of them light and extremely vibrant despite the lack of colour. Simon's immediately hooked to it, unsure why he can't look away, nor find the will to, and he bites back a smile as it surfaces on his face. Basilton's full and lush lips part (Merlin, how can someone look this good even when they're so spent they can barely keep up) and he seems to be about to say something, his eyes training over Simon's arm and down to his bandaged hand.

Before he can say anything, though, Simon's own voice rises in a chilling scream and he calls Basil by his name, shooting forward to pull a hand up to him, yelling 'Watch out!' and 'Please' while sirens blare noisily in his mind. In one bloodcurdling moment, horrifyingly slow in his eyes, Basilton's features twist in puzzlement then in alarm, his skin bristling to danger and his body falling off his horse to avoid a rogue and incoming arrow headed his way. It skims past him, or so Simon hopes and thinks it does, for suddenly blood splatters across his face as he stands there, hand still up and eyes taking in the arrow impaling the man by his side instead.

Then, all hell broke loose.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hola amigos!
> 
> Uh. Yea. I just thought I needed to say that I love those bois so much. 
> 
> And ofc, THANK YOU for reading!
> 
> PEACE!

**Chapter 6**

Simon's feet hit the stone beneath with ringing clacks. He hadn't changed his attire from the games before, and blood is still splattered across his green jacket like freckles. The only thing he managed to do was fist a handkerchief and wipe his face ferociously till his skin stung and his breath calmed, and then he was goaded around the hallways with soldiers bumping against one another while they moved, and courtiers panicking and trying to leave. However, everything is on lock-down (which was Simon's first order when he had his wits back after he witnessed Lord Fennis's lifeless body scrambled on the ground) and no one was given the opportunity to step out of the castle walls. They're all packed inside, in the main hall, while the soldiers manhandled the source of the rogue arrow down to the dungeons below. 

Another step down and Simon's in the dungeons, the stinking smell of weeks with no shower or proper hygiene hitting him and flaring his nostrils in distaste. He grimaces and walks further between the damp gray stonewalls, careful not to show any of his emotions on his face, though he tries his best to avoid looking at all the cells by his side housing criminals in varying states of humility and perhaps decay. A soldier leads the way in front of him, keys dangling from his fingers as they swing back and forth with every movement they make as they delve deeper into the underground, and finally after minutes of Simon focusing solely on the jingling of the keys they do stop. 

He looks up, making eye contact with the soldier who turns the locks on the metal bars and slides them open, then he thanks him with a subtle nod and walks inside.

The sight he gets welcomed with threatens to make him gag, the acid burning its way up his throat and souring the back of his tongue, but he swallows the bile down and takes a seat on the only metal chair placed inside. Opposite to him, the man blamed for the incident sags against his restraints, metal cuffs enclosing his wrists and hanging him with shackles from the ceiling. Blood trails down his ripped rags, from between his dark strands of hair, the side of his temple, his neck and abdomen. He doesn't look up when the chair beneath Simon screeches, nor does he flinch when Simon clears his throat. All that his face shows is blank despair, staring at the ground with half lidded eyes and a slack jaw that he doesn't bother to pick up, or maybe who handled him made sure to dislocate it badly. 

"Hello." 

If King David were here, he would've lectured Simon on greeting criminals and traitors to the throne. He would've told him such a man deserves no common courtesy nor should he receive it from a lord like himself. In fact, he would've told him to extract all that he can from him with every possible way, as long as he doesn't collapse. 'Bear no sympathy for the fools nor for the evil, Simon. Nothing at all' He would've said.

The man looks up, euchred and empty, and he doesn't reply. Simon rests both of his palms on his thighs, resisting the urge to wipe them back and forth in lieu of doing anything to break the anxiousness welling up with every passing soundless second, and when he finds that there's nothing to get out of it by staying silent, he tries again. 

"You've been caught behind the bushes with arrows and bows," He starts, and the man shuts his eyes in defeat.

"Yes."

"You're the man who aimed at the Prince, then."

"Yes."

"Why?"

Silence was his answer. The man looks back down with nothing to offer other than his ragged breath and the acrid smell of his blood hanging in the air. Simon follows his tiny movements with his eyes, from the lolling of his head against a strained arm to the feet barely touching the ground with his toes, and he waits a few more beats for him speak, to say anything that can can count as a development over what he already learnt from the soldiers questioning him before, but he got nothing. He shifts in his seat, clenching his fists in the fabric of his pants, and he speaks with a louder tone.

"How did you get inside the castle walls?"  
"Why the prince?"  
"Was it all planned before?"

Each question is met with the same frustrating silence that nearly deafens Simon and makes him want to scream. He thought they were exaggerating when they told him that the man's lips are completely sealed when he was led down the stone and damp stairs. He thought they might have intimidated him with their sheathed swords and bright green and violet capes. However, he now starts to think they were really true, everything they said, and that maybe there's no hope of getting anything out of the man except the confirmation that it was _him_.

So, he resorts to his initial passiveness, asking his name with an easy drawl and a gentle expression that calms the slight tremors in the man's body and urges him to talk. Thomas, he said, and Simon considered it an improvement with a silent cheer. He told him that he's a merchant, that he trades in gemstones and pendants. That he's in his early thirties. All the mundane facts.

"Do you have a family, Thomas?" He asks and Thomas stiffens again, this time with a hysteric edge to the shifting of his eyes and the twitching of his fingers. He stares right at Simon then away, lips sealed once more, and he gives no reply even when Simon repeats the question to him. 

"Talk to me. If there's something that can lift away a fraction of your punishment, talk to me. I'm trying to help you, Thomas." Simon hands shake when the man simply wilts away again. "Why did you do it? Why now? Tell me anything!"

"Lord Snow, is everything alright?" A soldier calls from the end of the narrow hallway in the dungeons, peeking his head forward in hopes of glimpsing any disarray, but Simon grits his teeth and yells that no, there's nothing wrong, and that they should come and close the bars. 

It's taking every ounce of his self control (the practiced one he spent years and years harnessing) not to let the tingle in his fingertips spread, or the pounding in his head to take over. They threaten to overwhelm him whenever he looks down and catches the dotted bloodstains, or when he remembers the look on Basilton's face as he dodged out of the way and fell into the dirt. He can still see his ankle captive in the saddle, can still hear the whoosh of air as the arrow barely avoided him and himself then impaled in Fennis, the gurgling sound he made when he dropped to his knees with red blossoming on his torso and he went on his face. 

The chaos broke loose after that, people swarming around with screams and horses neighing in terror. Soldiers rushed to their Prince's aid, hoisting him up, though Simon spared it all a quick glance before he dropped down next to Lord Fennis and held his body close. He looked up at Simon with gradually dulling eyes, the luster fading, and he made that broken sound that had Simon twisting with internal pain. 

Hours from then, some time like now, they would've been all seated around tables, sipping wine and eating ham served on plates. They would've soaked nuts in honey and curled their tongues around them as they listened to harps and kitharas, a dancer entertaining them all with her fluid movements. Simon would've been praised for a day well organised. No one would've died. The prince would've been alright. 

All the things that would've happened if this wasn't his reality.

"Lord Snow?" The man before him perks up suddenly, his breath catching and his fingers curling around the chains. Simon pushes back his reeking magic and regards him with a frown as he confirms that he is, indeed, Lord Simon Snow, and he gets further puzzled when Thomas's entire demeanor starts shifting to that of poorly contained unease. He gapes up at Simon, his eyes wide and glimmering, and he speaks the words that Simon cannot for the life of him decipher.

"Don't give it away, please…!" 

He was about to ask him what that even means, but his tongue gets tied by the panic shaking the man and the soldier opening the bars and telling him he can step out now. So, he takes small steps outside, still watching the prisoner in baffled concern, and he turns around to leave once he sees that there's no use gawking when Thomas slumps back again, ready to face whatever fate arrives.

Fresh air hit his nostrils, with a tinge of hysteria still wafting through. Simon inhales deeply and rests his back against a wall in the endless corridors of the palace, taking his time to let everything that happened sink in before he attempts to resume this seemingly bizarre night. In retrospect, he had anticipated that something awful may happen, for his luck never made an appearance for a while (a long while if you ask) and this may just be the beginning of a cascade of absurdity. Except this time he's not the victim, he's not hurt, and he's not in danger, if you eliminate the fact he may be questioned and trialled for careless behaviour. This time, Basilton,  _ The Prince _ , was the aim, and only Merlin knows why the bloody fuck this is making Simon's heart ache. 

Without further thought, Simon detaches himself from the wall and hurries down hallways and narrow aisles, nodding to the guards bowing to him and offering his thanks to any servants, he doesn't need them. What he needs lies behind a closed door, two familiar guards manning it with grave expressions, and a faint melody escaping outside. He takes a deep breath and straightens is back, trailing his eyes hesitantly over the wood carvings of the door as they loop and curve, the winged goats and the stars, then looks head on to Nialler who hesitates briefly before finally knocking on the door and heading inside. 

A few moments later, he re-emerges, leading Simon in and closing the door firmly behind.

Simon takes in a deep inhale and keeps it within, faced with the sight of Basilton -not the prince, not the royal blood, but Basilton, hair disheveled and clothes slightly rumpled at the hem- standing erect with elegant fingers holding the bow of a violin. He slides it across the chords, black lashes fanning across his cheeks as he sways scrupulously to the rhythm he plays, and hair falling across his forehead with every graceful movement. Without meaning it, Simon gapes. He takes every inch of him, from the shoeless feet to the elegant curve of his back and dip of his waist framed perfectly by the white tunic he's wearing. 

He looks like he's out of a dream. Like when in the middle of a nightmare, he's the soothing calm you run to, untarnished by the darkness and unperturbed by all the screams. And Simon walks, a moth to the flame, and he reaches out unconsciously to him hoping that he's real.

In all the time he'd stayed in the castle after Basilton left, and all the instances he faced him in the Veranda as the prince lashed at him several times till Simon couldn't breathe, this would be the first that Simon sees his old friend with one of his walls down. He can tell from the still tense shoulders and the taut way his legs are rooted that there are still so many to go, but the fact he allowed him an in when he's not in his most pristine form makes Simon giddy with hope.

"Your highness…" He whispers, then he immediately regrets it, for the hypnotic tune he was playing stops and the bow drops to the side. For a moment he wishes to tell him to resume his music, that he's so happily going to wait, but then Basilton flutters his gray eyes at him and words leave Simon altogether. He loses himself in that look, the fierce yet puzzled frown forming. He's taken back to times he showed a young Basil how to hold a wooden stick like a sword, and when he took him by the hand to sneak him around the kitchens. Basil never admitted concern or fright, he jutted his chin out stubbornly and walked like he knows everything that he's doing, but there always remained that hesitant stare, that confused shift in his irises when he had no idea what Simon's up to, and it's a thrilling discovery to know that it's still there.

He stares at him the same way, lips parted and a frown lining his forehead, while Simon picks and lingers on every spot on his face.

There, on the side of his lower lip, is a small cut. So is on his temple, and his nose faintly bruised. When Simon focuses further, he sees that the tautness of his legs aren't his walls being held up, but him keeping on his strained and sprained feet by sheer will alone. For a moment he is still lost on words and what to say to such a sight, but when Basilton starts to sneer, Simon tries to smile.

"You should sit down, your highness."

"Merlin, what would I have done if I didn't have someone like you to tell me what to do?"

"Are you alright?"

"Of course I am! Do you see an arrow in my chest?"

"Your legs-" Simon's eyes drop down to them, pursing his lips. Basilton doesn't respond, he merely blinks at Simon and his lips gap further on their own accord before he gulps down and sighs.

"They're just sprained ankles."

"Please sit down…" 

"And why do you care?"

"Because-" 

_ Because I missed you. Because I missed caring for you. I missed being able to look at you without wondering if you see me the same too.  _

He licks his lips and shrugs, searching for words to use and finding none in aid. Basilton nearly folds his arms across his chest in defiance, glaring still, when Simon holds his bandaged hand out and smiles again. "You cared. When I was hurt, you cared, and you made sure I'm taken care of. Please, let me do the same." 

Basilton's expression wavers, his frown etching deeper and his hands tightening on the violin and bow. He keeps his eyes on Simon's, searching, calculating, and putting all possible reasons Simon might've said the words he did. Or so Simon thinks. There was a time when he thought he can guess what went on inside that convoluted brain of his, but such time is long gone. Right now, all he hopes for is that whatever swarms in there remains on the positive side and that he continues to show him all the doors that lead him in.

In the end, Basilton gives up his stubbornness and puts down his instrument, and Simon immediately takes a hold of his elbow in one daring movement. He feels him stiffen under his touch, like a live statue turning back into rocks, yet he leads him as amiably and gently as he can towards the reclining couch. Slowly, Basilton's body abides, and fractionally he starts leaning over Simon as the strain in his ankles catch up to him while they both limp to where Simon leads them, bodies pressed by the shoulders, till Simon helps him settle down once they reach their destination. 

Instead of lying down, Basilton looks up to Simon and studies his close face and his body that's hunched over his. Simon lets his elbow go gingerly and purses his lips, but before he can retreat Basilton grabs his hand and turns it over to examine the bandage more clearly. His long slender fingers, so smooth they glisten, slide down the inside of his palm, tracing the red patches that soaked the white, and Simon has the fantastical dream that he'd lean forward and press his soft lips to it, telling him he's kissing away all the pain. That thought hits him harder than any horrid news this day, constricting his lungs and spinning his head with questions of 'Why am I imagining this?' and 'Why him?' and 'How come?'.

He didn't kiss his hand, but his fingers lingered, which was as much of a kiss as Simon would've taken in right now because his mind was swimming in his head and everything suddenly became too much. He's hyper aware of the light dancing in the candles set on the mantle piece, the scent of rose petals tickling his nostrils and the back of his now very dry throat as it rises from the potpourri placed by the side of the bed, and the bergamot and citrus smell that's just so Basil that he's heady with it. 

He must've flushed at some point, for his cheeks are heated and his body is tingling again, everywhere. Basilton still has his fingers on him, unmoving, and when Simon focuses back on his eyes rather than the sweet parting of his pink plump lips he sees him narrowing his orbs and wrinkling his brows. He withdraws. 

"Have they taken care of your injuries," He whispers instead, licking his lips then adding almost on a second thought "your highness?"

"Ah, yes." The Prince frowns further, blinking up at him for a couple of seconds. "They did."

"The attacker is imprisoned in the dungeons for now. We've tried talking, negotiating as well. I, myself, have seen to him, but we've got nothing more than admitting to his crime. No motive, no reason, no personal information beyond being a merchant and his name."

"What motive do you need? Killing the Prince  _ is _ the motive, you imbecile."

"I know that!" Simon grits his teeth, the lustrous spell they were in speedily fading, and he clenches one fist while he waves the other hand around. "I do know that that's his final goal, thank you very much. The problem is  _ why _ . Why would a merchant who has no direct connection with you do something as rash as this in the middle of a royal event?"

"Rash? You think this was a rash decision? Every soldier and every guard was distracted by the games and keeping everyone in order, of course setting up such a scheme should be easy."

"I made sure every corner was accounted for. Every gate was guarded. Every section was fully analysed. He couldn't have just slipped past them!" 

"Don't bring your frustrations out here on me just because you failed,  _ yet again _ , on doing the simplest of things."

"Merlin Morgana, I swear everything was supposed to be under control!" Simon practically yells, his breath shallow, and Basilton returns it with the same loud tone.

"Well I don't see that happening, do I?"

"You know what? Fine. Just fucking throw me out of this place and take my title from me. I don't even care anymore."

"You don't? Then why are you so angry about it?" Basilton's scowl turns into a smirk just as quickly as Simon's frown deepens and his blood begin to boil. He takes the step he retreated back forward, glowering down on him, and he points a finger at his chest without actually touching him. If he's going to be relieved of his status, then he might as well do whatever the bloody hell he wants while he's at it.

"I am angry because I put every ounce of my soul in every stupid task you give me and yet you throw them back at my face like they're worth nothing. That is why I'm angry. If there's no way I reach that scale of being remotely acceptable to you then what's the point. Take my title away then, I won't even fight it."

"Execute him." 

"What?" The words being delivered so plain and out of the blue brings his tantrum to a halt. He tries absorbing them, rolling then around for a meaning and relevance to what they were shouting about, but nothing comes to mind. He's tempted to ask him again, though he knows if he does he'll just call him an idiot who's incapable of basic human interactions such as hearing and understanding, then he'd run him around the rosebush without getting to the point of what he means. 

If he's going to annoy him, Simon's gonna take it and leave with the least possible losses, so he remains silent when Basilton says nothing, and he glares at him, the figure of the man he just lost himself daydreaming about. 

He must be a masochist or a fool, crawling to the rose and missing the fangs of the snake that lies beneath. 

And fangs they are, for Basilton bares his teeth and sneers, rolling his eyes in one perfect arc (because really what else is not perfect about the pompous prick?) then waves a dismissive hand at him. "Just what you heard. Execute the prisoner. You won't be getting a word out of him so don't bother any longer."

"How do you know that?"

"I just do."

"With all due respect, but he may have been pushed into this. Maybe there's an important detail we're missing. Maybe we can detain him for longer as we figure out more points to the attack. There is no need to rush the executi-"

"I said off with it. He's going to be punished anyway so just do it now and save him the pain. This is for the better."

"Your highness I can't just-" Simon starts, his voice rising and his tingling returning, but Basilton grips his sleeve and nudges him closer with a deep sigh and an even deeper melancholic look on his face, one that Simon hasn't seen in a very long while.

"Simon, please just kill him. This is mercy for him." He urges, his lips curving downwards. "Trust me."

And he'll be damned if he didn't give in to the soft sound of his name spoken in that voice, or the last two words that he never dreamt of hearing again. He gives in easier than he thought he's capable, his body deflating against his weight and his brows sinking down unhappily over his eyes. Basilton lets out a short faint breath before releasing him, and he rests his palms on his lap while he shifts and lies back on the reclining chair, limber limps sprawled gracefully and hair fanned around his head. He shuts his eyes like the world has been too much already and he cannot take in much more, which Simon can very much relate to and understands as his cue to leave.

_Trust me_, he said, and perhaps there's no other bittersweet way of dealing with but trusting Basilton Pitch. He'll be damned indeed.

His last stop for the night was at Penelope's, where he sat across from her, peeking behind vials and large tubes of liquids of all colors and textures. She'd been radiant the past few days, after the Ball, though she never opened the subject up with Simon regarding the incidence he caused nor had he faced her with the fact he's aware of what, or who, is keeping her shining like a star. He thanks her, spiritually, and he follows her movements with his eyes as she dribbles counted drops of a light blue liquid into a glass vial before taking in some more from a boiling pot. She shuts the vial with a cork, then she clasps her palm around it before swirling it back and forth, her fingers crackling with violet sparks. 

"Oh wow." Simon breathes out once he sees the vial set down, now bright green with a glittery hue, and he holds it up to examine it up close.

"Simon, this really isn't a good idea. If the King learns of this, he'll be furious." She whispers, biting on the nail of her right thumb then frowning at her tell. She lets her hand down and reaches over for him instead, clamping her palm over his and pausing his amazed examination. 

"Penny, it's fine. He won't be! All I need is to suppress my magic, keep it dormant."

"What if it eats away at it? I've never done anything like this before Simon, not with powers as- as powerful as yours."

"I think the word you're looking for is deadly. Horrifying. Debilitating."

"I'm serious-"

"Me too!" He groans and slips himself away from her hold, shoving the vial into his pocket for good measures. "You saw what happened the day of the Ball. I can't let that happen again, Penny. I nearly unleashed several times today. This can't happen, not when I can stop it. You're doing it for the greater good, not just me."

"You're using that manipulative nonsense on me now?" She sighs and settles back on her chair, running her fingers through her dark coiling strands and letting them bounce more. "Fine whatever. But you have to tell me if something is wrong or weird. If you feel anything that's out of the ordinary, any pain, any side effects, you must tell me. And I'm not even joking, Simon. You  _ have _ to tell me  _ immediately _ ."

"Alright alright! I will!" He waves a hand at her, flailing it around as he stands up and heads for the door. "Thanks a ton, ma'am."

She rolls her eyes at him and he smirks, making his way out and away to his final stop and the one that he's been craving the most. When he sinks into the softness of his sheets and his bed, every sore muscle in his body hisses with ache then in relief. He didn't bother with getting into anything fresh, he simply tossed his clothes to the nearest chair, made sure a brazier is lit, then took the new potion and headed to bed. He opens the drawer to the side table and takes out the rest, gulping from his assortment of vials (one for the nightmares, one for the insomnia, one for pain, and now one for his uncontrollable reeking magic) then putting them all aside in favour of shutting his eyes and pushing all today's worries behind. 

\\\\\\\\\/////

The morning sun of the next day did nothing of burying any of yesterday's dilemmas, nor did it calm the turbulence that welled in every passing member of the palace. In fact, the day arrived with its own set of uneasiness as the Prince gave explicit orders for the prisoner to be immediately executed in public, and guards found no dare in them to object or wait for a single second. Everyone parted and made way for the august form of their Prince marching down the palace walls and standing by its gates, while ahead the man was fixed down on a small wooden henge, face bent to the side and limbs pliant as they await their demise.

His lips moved, though, in silent prayers as the headsman gathered his breath and lifted the sharp axe, then all that was heard was the loud impact of metal upon bone and wood, and the rolling of the man's head over the ground. Simon looks away, a shiver running up his spine, and he leaves the crowd as soon as the punishment is seen to. No matter how many times he had to witness death, it doesn't refrain from making his skin crawl and his bile to rise.

He told him it's mercy, he asked him to trust him, but seeing something so brutal befalling the man he just sat across and talked to the night before makes him question the audacity of these words.

The only salve is that Basilton turned away and walked inside as well, not relishing in the sight, nor gloating over the man who aimed for his death. Simon could've followed him and excused his behaviour for wanting to check on his Prince's health, his ankles, but he gives up midway and heads for his work room instead.

He needs to be alone for a moment, so does Basilton (he thinks. He hopes he's right, because he hopes he truly knows him), so he enters and closes the door behind him before throwing his body on the tufted velvet chair and groaning. 

Soon, the King will make a statement about what happened in the games, calling for Simon to get the facts straight, and he'll most likely get angry at the hasty punishment without getting much information beforehand. If so, Simon intends to rest even for a short while before he has to be thrown into the gutter once again. 

His mind pulls him back to before the games, when words so chilling pressed upon him and left him reeling from the blow, and whispers near his ear arise asking him if everything from the Ball has settled, now that he's seen Basilton's guards shaking and heard Agatha's prophecy. When he gives no answer, not to himself, the voices whisper again if he even wondered what the prophecy means, if darkness is near, what truth be told and what love- and to whom. 

Fiercely, he pushes the thoughts aside and cradles his head in both palms. Despite ingesting all his potion doses, he still feels his head pounding like a hammer meeting steel, and his body tied down against a tornado trying to escape free. He balances his breaths, in and out, till the loud bangs fade to a dull throb, then he hunches forward to pull forth all the documents that need assessment and going through, scanning them one by one.

A messenger was dispatched with a few soldiers to Decros a day ago, to Simon's relief on the subject, so he puts this issue aside as one that needs following but no real attention yet. Instead, he puts all his focus on every reported criminal acts in the recent days, any feuds and any problems that arose in the city. He tries tracking down any lead with any name that's "Thomas" so he can decipher what exactly is going on and why.

He doesn't blame him if someone is fed up with the prince, but it's strikingly odd since no one sees the edgy side of him but Simon himself, and Basilton hasn't even been in the city for long. 

Maybe he came from Borak? 

He dismisses the thought quickly. No, Borak had that little lilt in their Rs and Ls, their vowels as long as their legs in comparison to Watford's crisp and sharp way of pronunciation, despite that they're speaking the same words. The man's accent was neither. It was blank, devoid of any indication to where in Veladan he may be, or if he's even from this country at all. His life is a mystery as well, and any hope Simon had of getting any knowledge this afternoon dies down when three hours pass and all he gains are sore back muscles and blurry eyes.

There really is nothing to do but accept supper and stare at his plate while he rolls his peas around, pokes at meats and tears bread into tiny pieces that he counts off as he thinks of trails he hadn't seen yet. 

The King didn't seek him, didn't ask for him, and everyone detained from the night before was released right after the public execution. The palace returns (nearly) to its usual slumber, and only Simon remains with loud voices in his head. When Bradley joins him with a hand holding his cup of beer, Simon pries it off him and takes a deep swing before standing and taking his hand as well.

"We didn't see where it happened."

"My lord…" Bradley gasps as he's being hurled forward, not resisting it, however, and Simon takes him past doors and hallways to the outside premises of the castle. He hands the cup back to him, half empty, then walks forward towards the still set arena, blood sloppily wiped off its floors and banners still flapping against the evening wind. 

"The sun is almost setting. We have enough time to investigate the area if we start now."

"Pardon me, sir, but isn't the perpetrator already dealt with? Why are we making the rounds?" Bradley frowns as he gulps down his beer, eyeing his lord who wheels around to arch a brow at him and tell him of course they still need to investigate. They know nothing of why and how this happened, and they need this knowledge to avoid further malicious murders. Bradley nods and follows him past the gardens, stables, training areas, and the arena as well. 

Simon senses his helper's confusion, even if he doesn't voice it, but his mind is so fixated on his task he barely has the wits to address him, he picks up the pace instead and follows the path to where he remembers the guards arresting the so called Thomas. His eyes dart up to the walls and gates surrounding the castle, so up high it's dizzying to look at, then his feet drag him away to one side of them.

"The question is, how did he enter?"

"You think he jumped?" Bradley looks up as well, and he winces, which Simon agrees with. 

"Yea, I don't think he did. These are way tall for anyone to climb."

"Ropes?"

"Hmm…" He reaches one wall and spreads his palm over it, fingers touching all the roughness of the bricks and cement, then he withdraw to instead hook both of his arms behind his back and stroll aimlessly with the encirclement of the castle's outer walls. Bradley follows silently, though he must be wondering what goes on inside Simon's head. However, Simon offers no insight as he keeps his gaze focused on walls and ground beneath his feet, grass disturbed by nothing except their steps as they pass by. He scuffles one foot in the wet dirt, marking his shoe, then resumes walking up till they reach where they started off.

After that, Simon heads back to the arrest spot.

"Is there-" Bradley starts then stops when he sees Simon frowning at the grass once again, this time bending down to pick up a large rock with beige and yellow stria to inspect it closely and from every angle. He drops it back, crouches next to it, and looks on at the arena. Bradley follow his movements and looks where he's looking.

"Oh." 

Perfectly, this spot seems to look over the entire arena and the crowd around in exact view. From where they are, and where the archer was, an aim at the prince would've been the easiest feat to grab at. In fact, targeting anyone from here would've been an easy task to complete.

"This place is far away from the gates and main areas. Guards aren't near it nor in direct sight of him as he would've been of them. The bushes…" Bradley wets his lips and sighs. "He got lucky with this spot."

"Luck is hardly a factor." Simon frowns and stands back up, his gaze roaming the place again before looking back at his helper with hard eyes. "If his luck was that good to save him a place, it would've remained that good to take him away from it and our hands. Something is off."

"You think he had time to search for the perfect spot?"

"I think he knew exactly where to go, Bradley." 

Darkness falls over them in the minutes following that, and in the end Simon calls it a day and heads back with him towards the palace inner walls. On their way there, though, they pass back by the gardens, red roses still blossoming brightly in the early night, making Simon smile as his fingers linger on one. 

For once, he thinks that this specific patch of earth is the only thing he can thank the prince and think good of him for. This garden. On impulse, and because he can't really help thinking of Basilton without having something of him to latch on to, his blue eyes swing up to the Prince's windows overlooking them, and he sees the curtains fluttering hurriedly as a figure retreats inside.

With a private smile, he plucks five roses from the middle of their stems and hands them to Bradley who stares down at them like he's holding a time bomb. His lower lip quivers before he finally glances up to meet his lord's eyes, and Simon pats his shoulder before saying "Give them to the Prince's maidservant, Laila is her name. Tell her to deliver them to the Prince's private chambers."

"Oh. Yes," He blinks and nods hurriedly, his stupefied expression falling away to nothingness. "Yes, I'll do that."

"Thank you, Bradley. You can go, there's nothing more we'll have to do." 

Bradley leaves, walking briskly back inside with the rose stems held in his grasps, and Simon gives the curtains and window one last glance before heading inside as well.

The reply comes to him late at night when he was preparing himself to bed, taking out his vials and uncorking one before the door was knocked on. He urges whoever it is to enter, and a servant rushes to bow before placing an envelope on Simon's table and leaving immediately after.

Upon closer inspection, it reveals to be a letter, sealed with clear wax encircling a rose petal inside, floating for eternity with no change, and Simon breaks that seal before unfolding the paper to see looping handwriting and cursive letters inked so gracefully like their owner.

_ The Veranda. _

That's all it said. He didn't need more words to understand the intended meaning of the letter, no words were required to explain what's so simple as requesting his presence there. Though Simon has no idea why the Prince thought it better to write it down instead of sending him a servant or a guard to inform him of such wishes. 

Shrugging, he puts his jacket back on, so as his pants, and he heads out of his room to where he meets his old-best-friend-now-heartless-prince every night following his arrival to Watford. The last memories he has of this place contrast wildly to each other. While one of them ended with his blood boiling and his face cold with splashed wine, the other left him confused and smiling at the faint glimpse of a missed friend underneath all that tough facade. He hopes that this time it's something nearer to the second, or even better than that- despite the circumstances.

When he reaches there, he finds no guards and no men near the area, not directly at least, which is different from all the times before. Especially now that the Prince's life seems to be in danger, and not so long ago. Simon frowns, but moves forward anyway to the figure leaned by the railings, lithe body so eased on the stone that Simon wonders if his skin is made of rubber that he can bend and stretch to appease each position like it's what they were created for. 

Basilton graces him with a look behind himself, taking in Simon's approaching form (who is admittedly shorter than him, despite the three year age gap) before he looks back ahead. Simon settles by his side, gaze sliding down his body to fix on his ankles for a short while then looking back ahead.

"Do they hurt?" He whispers then curses himself mentally again for forgetting to add "You highness" which he does hastily after.

"You gave me wilting flowers." Basilton's nostrils twitch in what Simon assumes to be distaste, but the face he pulls as he says those words, like he's trying so hard to show disdain that's not there, makes Simon bite his lips and shrug playfully, throwing his words back at him.

"Don't take your anger out at me just because you didn't think of putting them in a jug of water."

Surprisingly, that cracks up a grin from Basilton and a short laugh that Simon didn't truly expect, ringing near his ear long after it was gone and making him grin back in return. 

"Well you should've left them where they are, not plucked them out of their soil."

"Ah, yes. Perhaps…" Simon purses his lips and drops his eyes to the railings and the expanse of land below, mulling over his words and realising that maybe he did take it a bit far with sending him the flowers. If he's being honest, he has no idea why he did such an act so impulsively and without thought. Perhaps he had no reason at all. Perhaps all the reasons hid themselves well. Perhaps he couldn't allow himself to even think of them. He doesn't notice that the prince has gotten nearer to him, his body heat now a tangible source on his side, in favour of being lost in thought, but when he returns to the present he's immediately brought up short and breathless by the close presence.

"Why five?" Basilton murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper as it flows in satiable waves to Simon's near ears who melts with it- well, melts till he realises he's melting and stiffens his body with a start. "Why five of them?"

"That's- well, that's because it's been-" 

He stops though, waving his hands in inarticulate manner that he hopes depicts what he intends to deliver without him actually saying the words, and he's astounded to see that it really worked, for those silver eyes, gleamed by the light of the moon and the stars reflecting on them in an art-worthy sight, widen a tad and their pupils dilate. His lips part then close, then part again. Simon follows the minute movements with adherence before Basilton speaks again.

"Five years since I left Watford... You missed me."

"I did not!" The heat rushes furiously to Simon's cheeks, his body retreating as if from a blow, but the Prince points at him and laughs. 

"Merlin, you were trying to tell me you missed me!"

"This means nothing. Whatever, I shouldn't have sent you roses anyway." Simon frowns and looks away, but Basilton keeps laughing by his side and the sulking of his cannot truly keep up a front for longer. The more he hears him, the joy of his tone and the glowing of his face like a child on Christmas, he can't help but smile and admire, and this drives him nuts. He shouldn't be staring at a bloke like he hung the moon and that everything revolves around him like the earth to the sun. 

It's because he hasn't seen him like this in a long time, that must be why. He hasn't seen Basil, his best friend, so open and sincere since the boy was thirteen, and the sight of it now brings back old memories accompanied with unbidden feelings that were never resolved. Nostalgia and attachment replaces betrayal and hurt, that must be it. It must be why he's just aching to pull him close and press him to his body while he holds him and tells him that yes, it's been five years since he left the bloody castle and Simon alone. Two more since he even let him into his life and mind, showed him what goes on in there and told him where are his doors. 

When the Queen died, Simon wanted to comfort him and be there like any best friend should be, like how he  _ wanted _ to be, but what he didn't come to conclusion of until later is that that day he didn't just lose a Queen, he lost his only friend as well.

Fine, yes. He missed him. He missed him terribly that he hates him for it. He hates him most because he doesn't know why he had to miss him in the first place. And why he had to leave.

Now he's here, standing with him in the night air, ankles bandaged and guards away, and he's looking at him with twinkling wide eyes filled with mischief and amusement fit for the young prince he always was when he laid out plans and strategies they only followed as children in a game as simple as hide and seek. Basil was brilliant at it. Simon always got caught. Nothing changed since then, for Simon's cheeks redden further under his playful scrutiny, and he knows he's well out of excuses to make.

His only way out is to change the subject, which only presents to him with his previous thought of the moment prior to stepping out to the veranda, and irked him still in the back of his head.

"Where are the guards? I didn't see anyone by the entrance."

"They're there, just further down the hallway. Giving us some privacy."

"This- forgive me but this is ridiculous. You've nearly been murdered not a day ago. Your ankles are sprained- which you should sit down for, by the way- and you're keeping away from your guards?"

"I've had worse." Basilton shrugs in nonchalance, casting his eyes back at the area forward. Simon follows his stare.

"Something isn't right about this," He starts, stealing a glance at his Prince to make sure he's listening before he sighs in exhaustion and continues. "He couldn't have gone through the walls, they were all spotless. Nor above them, they're too high, no rope marks, and not a single footprint in the mud."

"Yes."

"The place he aimed from wasn't random, either. It was marked with a specific rock, and it overlooked the entire area in perfect view. He knew where to go." Basilton looks at him now, body turned and face attentive as he studies him while Simon does the same. This way, their feet nearly touch and their faces are close, so when Simon speaks his next words, they feel like they're shared in a small bubble only they are in. The air stills. "He couldn't have gotten any way except through the gates. This means someone let him in, and not only this once, but times before to map out a position. He has an accomplice in the castle." 

Now, spoken out loud, Simon feels the dread of each syllable fall on him and weigh his chest down to the ground. Every detail he analyses throws a new punch at his gut, and though he's left reeling with it and grabbling for breath, Basilton simply nods and looks solemn. How he can be so calm about this is beyond Simon. How anyone can nod and shrug to the face of danger and the idea he might be dead baffles him to the core.

Then it hits him, and a new wave of nausea comes with the blow. He's had worse.

"This isn't the first time…" He speaks, voice hoarse from forcing it with sheer will to remain collected and monotonous. 

"You thought I came back to truly let him teach me how to run my own country? No. This city has to be my witness. Don't get me wrong, I love Borak. It's the only city in my name, but it is what it is, a small city in a sea of bigger and more influential ones. I don't want news of my death to travel in whatever bloody way it gets, saying the Prince died boar hunting when the animal viciously attacked while in fact I was stabbed to death. No. I won't allow that to happen, no matter what."

"And you're letting this go on?" He clenches his fists, begging his front to remain stoic.

"No I'm giving them the chance to do it, but in the main palace and in the witness of a hundred servants, guards, courtiers and Watford's lord." 

"Are you insane?" Simon's voice rises despite his best efforts, and with it his control drops like a curtain off its hooks. "Basilton what the hell? And you're doing nothing to prevent them from happening? What if you truly die? What will Veladan do- what will  _ I _ do? You can't just sit back and wait for the dagger to hit. This is suicide. What are you thinking?"

"You called me Basilton…" The Prince's voice is still low, nearing a whisper, but it comes out breathless and slow, stunning Simon to his outburst and pushing him thoughtlessly down on one knee with a bowed head.

"Apologies, your highness. That was deeply disrespectful of me."

"Rise." Basilton says again in the hushed voice of his, watching as Simon rises back to his full height, avoiding his gaze, before he clenches both fists and his jaw. Basilton sighs.

"I don't want to die, worry not about that." He thought he can hear Simon murmur 'I can not not worry' but he resumes anyway. "I'm trying to figure out some things first, and display them to everyone else."

"Well one of us has to do the protecting now."

"Counting by yesterday, I'm worried that-"

"Forget yesterday, your highness. No one will lay a hand on you, I'll personally make sure of that." Turning to look Basilton in the eyes with hard determined ones of his own, Simon pitches his chin higher and his chest, speaking with all the power in him and putting every bit of confident sincerity in his tone. "If it takes me my own life, I don't care. I promise you that."

For a while, a long while, Basilton just looks. He looks and looks that Simon thinks there must be something on his face that he didn't shroud with enough genuineness, or that he's looking right through him as if he's not there. It stretches on till Simon wonders if he said the right thing, because that seems rarer than saying the wrong. 

It goes further till Simon wishes to swear and swear. Till he trembles. Till he steps closer and looks him straight in the eyes and says he promises this on the life of the one thing he never swears on, the one person Basilton knows well that Simon won't use lightly, and only then does Basilton's dazed expression focuses and his cheeks redden. Maybe it's the shock, maybe it's the chill of the night.

"You're really smarter than you look." Is what he says, placing his hand atop Simon's and squeezing lightly before letting go. He smiles, a small and -dare he say- fond thing as he retreats and walks away, leaving Simon behind still standing and still on haywire. 

The phantom of his touch, soft and smooth and cold skin over his burning one, remains with him as he stands, and it remains with him as he goes to bed and hugs his palm to his chest, cradling it like a child.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yes I know it's been nearly a year since my last update and I suck so much yada yada yada, but I AM BACK FOR A NEW YEAR GIFT AND I FINALLY STARTED WRITING AGAIN. 
> 
> For full chapter experience, I suggest listening to Chelsea Wolfe's Fight Like Gods because it's the main vibe for it and the song I set on repeat as I typed away. 
> 
> Happy New year everyone! Hope 2021 treats you all better than 2020.
> 
> For all the friends I promised to write this for.

The line of soldiers holding the wide coffin upon their shoulders, with the nobility on the side, chins tilted upwards and hands folded behind their backs, marches forward beyond the palace’s outer gates and towards the city of Watford. Citizens flock the streets with garments as black as night and handkerchiefs as white as the doves flying in the sky. They bring them to their eyes as some weep and some murmur hushed words of warding evil and of asking for safeness. 

Lord Fennis has passed, and a tragedy has broken in the castle. 

“May Merlin receive his soul! May he rest and rise, new and whole, and may Morgana bless thee who sacrifices life for the greater good!” The soldiers chant, and with them the horn blares and chimes. Simon refuses the horse offered to him and marches behind them with a gaze glued to the ground, unable to rise. How could he face others when he knows he failed them, their prince, and the innocent dead man who could be amongst them if better arrangements and security were maintained? 

Basilton had wanted to march as well, on saddle though, but Simon refused, using his title to urge the prince to remain behind and not subject himself to any more dangers. “I promised to protect you,” he’d said, agitated and face flushed in frustration at the prince’s stubbornness. “I can’t protect you if you keep putting yourself in harm’s way!” Any other disagreements beyond that fell flat upon Simon’s ears who turned and left, restricting the prince’s leeway in times of crisis such as this. 

The march should be heading all the way from Watford to Sormir where Lord Fennis’s family resides so he can be buried there, and where another funeral will take place, albeit smaller than the one held at Watford before the march. Simon hadn’t really slept the night before, thinking all the events over and over, trying to make anything of Basilton’s “Trust me” and the fact he was adamant at executing the man who was going to harm him earlier than intended. 

To make sense of what Basilton knows and refuses to share, of who wishes him such ill-will regardless of the risk coming with harming the king-to-be. He obsesses over the preparations in his mind, and he rises from bed to light an oil lamp and place it by the table to start mapping out soldier posts and security lines. He distributes them and outlines pathways that should be taken, and he doesn’t rest until four long scrolls have been filled and sealed. When he looked up, dawn had lightened the sky, painting it a wash of orange breaking through the black. There was no time for him to close his eyes. 

When the march reaches the end of Watford’s borders Bradley nudges Simon then hurries to apologize with a flush, telling him they have reached the end of their walk and that others will be going on ahead. 

“We should be heading back, my lord.” is what he said, voice low and shy, and Simon nods to him with a sigh before patting the commander he accompanied on the plated shoulder. 

“You’ll be taking it from here. Be well.”

“Yes, my lord!” The commander salutes as the line moves on, and he gives a short bow before going after it, back straight. 

At the palace, Simon returns to a gathering in the main hall, lords and ladies holding goblets of wine clustered in fancy dresses and twinkling jewellery that remind Simon of the pearly tears the commoners had shed outside the gates. Some ladies whine about how outrageous it is for such a scene to transpire within the castle walls, and others place trembling hands over lips to contain the gasps they give when lords narrate how the awful tragedy had gone and how brave lord Fennis had stood in front of the arrow to save our prince from harm. Simon purses his lips as the doors close behind him, and he sweeps his gaze over the entirety of the hall to finally catch eyes with the prince standing by a pillar at the left of the hall, leaning against it with his own wine goblet in hand but not sipping any of it. Prince Basilton holds his gaze for seconds which captivate Simon and forces his limbs into a halt as the grey irises swallow him where he stands. They’re wide, his eyes are, and his lashes are shadowing over his cheeks as an effect of the candles’ lights on the chandelier. He can sense the accusation in them for leaving him to rot amongst the simple-minded luxury and the distasteful folk of nobility, and he tries to not take it to heart.  _ It’s all for your sake _ , he wills his eyes to explain as softly as he can with lowering lids and fluttering lashes of his own. _ It’s all for you _ .

Basilton breaks the eye contact and turns his gaze towards the councilmen seated and mumbling amongst themselves like conspirators fussing over this turn of events. Simon shakes that thought off his head and finds the will to finally move his feet and walk towards the prince, grabbing a goblet of his own from a passing tray in a servant’s hands. He stops by his side and sips, following his line of sight as it jumps from one person to the other, lazy and keen at the same time. More so like a hawk that eyes a potential prey as it circles above it in lazy swirls, only striking when it likes, maybe never at all. Simon gulps down.

“Back early,” Basilton mutters after minutes of silent observing their surroundings. His voice lures Simon’s gaze to land back at him helplessly, outlining his face with reverie like those maps he fretted over the night before. 

“Turns out Watford isn’t that big.”

“And yet you refused to let me roam it alongside you.”

_ Alongside you _ . Simon purses his lips again before licking his lower one unconsciously as he looks away and scans the hall for all the guards on post and all the soldiers manning it. He makes sure not a single area is vulnerable, not a weakness present and certainly not there where the prince is standing. He adjusts his footing to situate himself with his side guarding against where a high glass window is situated facing them. Even if it takes him his own life, he’d told him. 

“It’s too dangerous-”

“I told you I’ve had worse.”

“Not when I was there. Never when I am there.”

“Such arrogance.” Basilton scoffs and finally sips from his goblet, though the faint flush that spreads over his cheeks peeks at Simon momentarily before he hides it behind the rim of his cup. It mesmerizes Simon, leaves him gaping then tingling from head to toes, mind buzzing into static for a few thoughtless seconds as he lavishes in the memory of it flashing over and over in his mind. Beautiful is the word for it. Lethal. Worthy of bringing a man to his knees no matter how strong he is. He didn’t think he’d see more of Basil in the man standing before him, but this year each day brings out more of him than Simon had wished for, less than he wants but promising for more, and only now can Simon sympathize with the women swooning over the prince in graceless falls when he smiles their way or flutters those long and dark lashes at them. 

He’s certainly a sight to behold.

“Simon, dear.” A voice pulls him back from the ocean of thoughts he was drowning into and to the surface where he can finally breathe. He snaps his head shamefully its way, landing his gaze on a woman of a thick fur coat hanging around her shoulders and down to her waist. She’s cooing at Simon, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief, and sighing wearily about the startling affairs that came oh so suddenly. Distantly, Simon’s mind provides her face with a name: Lady Theresa Foxwell, mother to lord Foxwell of Meriadner. Simon remembers her visiting the castle regularly back when her husband was alive, always attending balls and casual gatherings, and he remembers trailing behind his mother’s legs, holding onto her dress till she pats his head and tells him to let go so she can sit down and hold the harp close to her chest. He’d pout and his eyes would fill with tears, but his mother would always promise him to let him play the harp later on when her duties are not required and they can go back to their room. One time, Lady Foxwell had watched him bawl his eyes out as his mother tried to calm him, and she came over to show him her collet-necklace littered with electric blue gems shining the same colour as Simon's eyes. 

“They’re sapphires, just like your eyes.”

Simon forgot the weeping and extended his hand to boldly touch the necklace upon her bosom, which his mother reprimanded him for but Lady Foxwell didn’t seem to mind. From then on she makes sure to greet Simon with each of her visits to the castle. The woman standing before him now isn’t as young as the one in his memories, but certainly holds the same features and the same streak of foreign beauty that’s similar to Queen Natasha's. Sun Kissed skin and dark hair braided and pinned to her head. 

“Lady Foxwell,” Simon bows and kisses her hand, which is a custom really that he doesn’t always love to adhere to when he’s always worried his touch is lethal. 

“I see you have been keeping his highness company. It’s such a tragic turn of events, I am sure the prince is pretty shaken by the audacity of whoever did this. To think there’s someone out there holding such a grudge towards our prince… It’s really heartbreaking.”

“I do not presume that everyone is madly infatuated with me, but I do admit it hurts my heart to know someone loathes me this much.” Basilton places a hand over his heart and, like the mischievous prick he is, feigns a wounded expression that earns a sad sound from the lady of Meraidner. Such a drama queen.

Simon tries to hide the roll of his eyes, really, but Basilton kicks him subtly in the shins and he ends up choking on his saliva. The sad sound is later directed at him.

“You look so weary, Simon, dear, more than the last time I saw you. I hope you’re not pushing yourself past extremes. Truly young people nowadays believe themselves machines with none of their energy depleting. This body of yours is a temple and you should nourish it and keep it standing on its feet-”

Simon smiles and tunes out the rest of her words, only nodding and humming in agreement as tries to look the most interested and invested in her words. He anticipates the coming topic, which he is proved right about when she urges him to not be too engrossed by his duty that he forgets to live his own life. “Find a wife,” she says, patting his arm. “Is there no girl that you fancy at all?” 

Simon’s gaze strays and gets caught by blonde strands at the far side of the hall. Agatha Wellbelove is there, sitting on a plush chair and staring into space like she seems to be doing most of the time these days. Her eyes are unseeing, or over insightful but to nothing that’s going on around her. She’s by the King’s side who’s on his throne and frowning as councilman Abrahams whispers near his face. When Simon’s eyes retrace back to the person next to him he finds Basilton staring intently back at him, the grey of his eyes clouded and dark, fathomless. 

He’d ask him what it is that bothered him so much, but then he remembers the day on the balcony, his head bent over Agatha as they stand alone under the night sky, and he swallows back his question. Dread and anger follow. 

“Soon.” He answers pettily, leading the old woman to beam and laugh, commenting on how bold he’d become and how delightful it is that he’ll soon be a responsible handsome husband. All that Simon can do is nod and smile, avoiding looking at the man by his side again. 

\\\\\\\\\/////

“Taking away any unnatural routes of entry, that leaves us with the main eastern gate. That’s the way everyone got in, so it’s most likely how he got in as well, mixing with the crowd.” Bradley speculates as he leans over one of Simon’s drawn maps, pointing with his index over all the places that he’s indicating. His finger rests on the eastern gate holding the main entrance to the castle, and he taps twice on it. Simon hums in response, though he’s facing the window looking out at the gardens while gnawing at his thumbnail. Penelope smacks his hand away from his teeth and then hunches over the map as well. 

“So that means either he’s a master of disguise, enchanted the soldiers manning the gate, or simply someone willingly allowed him in.” She comments. Bradley nods gravely.

Simon hums again.

“Oh for Merlin’s sake, Simon. Focus.”

“I am focused. I am thinking.”

“The prince isn’t in the gardens, he’s in his room. Stop worrying.”

Bradley clears his throat while Simon sputters and turns around to glare at her.

“I. Am. Not. Worrying.”

“Mhm. So the map.” she rolls her eyes and taps on the map. Simon approaches the table they’re gathered around begrudgingly. “What’s your thoughts?”

“Counting by the choice of the place the preparator aimed from, I think it wasn’t just a fluke. It was carefully planned from before, up till the capture. The man remained where he is even after the chaos so that he can be caught, then proceeded to admit to his crime and ask us for a punishment.” A frown forms between Simon’s eyes and he massages that spot harshly with his fingers. “That means he had access to the palace, or at least someone inside relaying outlines and blueprints. Maybe even mark the place for him. If we take the fact that this has been happening in Borak as well, then-”

“It has?! You knew?!” Penelope shoots up with wide eyes while Bradley gasps with a “My lord!” 

Simon sighs and nods.

“Did the prince tell you himself?” Good Bradley asked, eyes full of sympathy and sadness when Simon nods again and takes a seat.  “That’s awful…”

“It also means it increases the chances that the mole is within the prince’s guards and came with him from Borak.” 

“Not entirely. The security of that day was mainly handled by me and my men, thus no one would allow one of the prince’s guards to give the last word in who goes in and who doesn’t. If this person came in, that means he was also allowed by one of our men. The suspicion also lays on us.”

Simon traces his index over the lines of the castle and all its walls. He stops at checkpoints and hums thoughtfully then moves on to the other, and the other two in the room watch him curiously with mixed levels of admiration. Although there’s also worry heavy in Penelope’s gaze. Simon knows she wants to ask him about the medicine, his magic, and how he feels. That she wants to know whether he can still feel it there, perched beneath the layer of skin and fat, waiting to course quickly through his arteries and spurt out beyond the limitations of his body. Such a small body, she called it. Such a small body holding so much magic inside. 

_ One day, it will eat away at me till none of me remains. I’ll be part of this world. Magic floating in the atmosphere. Atoms and bursts of lights.  _

None of the two asks Simon why he’d summoned them while going over the map and his thoughts. They had been operating with Simon several times to know by now how exactly to contribute with all his ideas that he sometimes is unable to form into commands. They assign themselves missions to perform without him asking, operating like fifth and sixth limbs of his that do not have a mind of their own but simply an extension of his, and Simon is eternally grateful. Before, he was always ashamed to be such a burden, unable to perform the most basic of duties as their lord by at least formulating a set of commands that he later relays to them, but he'd learned later on how better it is to let them in and show them the intricacies of how his mind works. 

Show not tell, that's what they asked. That's what he gives.

“Charm them.” Bradley nods.

“Drug them.” Penelope follows. 

They look at each other, silent communication going between them like a ball being tossed back and forth before they all nod and withdraw from the table. What they've settled on is that Bradley would use his magic to extract the truth from the soldiers Simon would question and prod at, and Penelope would open the vials she has hidden in her sleeves so the waft of them would muddle their sense of realness and allow truths to drip from their tongues like honey, pure and untarnished. 

Simon hates to feel too dependent on them to achieve his goals, but when he ventures the idea of using his own magic to extract anything from anyone it only presents as either a threat or torture, not simple subtle means at all. So, he deigns in and follows them as he points and takes them through certain hallways and to certain individuals where he puts them under microscopic scrutiny.

“ _ You don't want to seem suspicious now, do you? _ ”

Bradley’s voice turns sweeter, deadlier from a third point of view as Simon gets enchanted by the way his eyes twinkle and his demeanour changes to that of a lure, words like religion and tone like hymns. Soldiers had no choice but to nod. They never stood a chance.

“ _ So you want to say the truth, then. _ ”

And the truth would spill. 

If someone was hard to convince, a smell from the vial that Penelope brandishes stealthily under their nose forces the words out their throat. Yet, it's been a couple of hours and all that Simon reaches is that they all do not know who might have done something like this. All were following orders. All checked that everyone who entered was accounted for and heavily inspected. They are back to square one.

Bradley pursed his lips and told Simon maybe this is their truth because it was altered to them. Maybe they don't know that they let someone like that in. Maybe they don't remember. Simon waved a hand his way and massaged his temple instead. His words weren't helping.

All he can think of is the need to reach the bottom of this issue, and fast, and all that consumes his mind is the look on Basilton’s face as he fell off his horse and escaped death in a millisecond, and the one he wore in the main hall when Simon looked back at him. He can still feel the phantom of his touch on his hand, a reminder of his promise to him and his pledge, and he isn't ready to go back on it yet. Not when he feels closer to him after that night than he had been for the last five years.

He pinches his temple further.

It wasn't long before he was met with the object of his insistent thoughts and worries, there standing at the end of the hallway leading out, frowning like the world has come to an end while he has yet not received his evening tea. The utter blasphemy.

When Simon approaches where he's standing, being blocked from heading out by a guard who's nearly sweating all his bodily fluids in panic, Bradley and Penelope withdraw and take it as their cue to leave, and the soldier scrambles to bow and murmur a small “My lord”

“What is the meaning of this! Did you imprison me within the walls of this palace? Am I not allowed to even walk through the gardens?” Basilton hisses, his face exuding fury and disdain. He holds himself like how a prince should, all his glory returning in its most arrogant form, his chin tilted up and his eyes looking down at Simon like he's the mere lord he is. Simon can hear the remaining unspoken words.  _ Who do you think you are? _

“It's fine, Klaus. I'll take it from here.” Simon nods to the panicking guard who sighs in visible relief and steps aside, allowing his lord to handle the situation that'll most likely not end well, counting by the prince’s mood and the long going known feud between him and the lord of Watford. He sneaks glances their way from his post, curious of how things will go down and who would snap at the other first. He's surprised when he sees the prince waiting for an answer, and his lord sighing and smiling his way.

_ What was that? _ He thinks, puzzled and incredibly wronged now that it seems the rumours and gossip he received are all false. They seem friendly enough.

“It's for the best to limit your whereabouts these couple of days till I find out more about what happened. I can't do my job if you keep jumping from one place to the other,” Simon says as he walks Basilton out the way he wanted to go, then he adds after a few seconds “your highness.”

“Why bother? You already speak to me informally.” Basilton sneers

“I was under the impression you don't mind it?”

“You have gotten snarkier than ever. Is that my influence I see?”

“Perhaps. I have been learning from the best.” Simon allows himself to laugh, to take his edgy comments and turn them to jokes the way he hopes Basilton means, and he feels warmth spread in his chest at how Basilton doesn't scold or humiliate him over it, rather try very hard to stop the grin from forming on his lips. They twitch minutely, nearly unseen, but Simon sees them. Simon always looks. Always sees. He would never miss it.

“Where did you wish to go. I shall accompany you.”

Basilton seems to consider it as he casts his face towards the sun, letting it burnish his skin golden and his eyes in hues of ambers and reds, and he squints its way as he tells him he wishes to go where Simon trains with his sword. The place that no one else goes to but him. He needs the quiet and the privacy, and Simon cannot argue with him on that. At least there he wouldn't be so worried about publicity and safety. Simon knows its ins and outs like the back of his hand. No one would dare to attempt any funny business in his presence.

He leads the prince there, careful to not let him step on any mud or through any horned plants, and he lets the memories swimming in the back of his head surface little by little to give him images of better times when they were young and Basil would follow him there as they sneak off out the palace halls and to the training area. Simon would take out the two wooden swords he had hidden there for them and they would fight using them. Simon would win, grinning widely as he casts Basil’s sword aside, and Basil would get so angry at him he sometimes cries. 

Of course, he would deny it now, say he never shed a single tear or even lose against Simon, but Simon remembers it vividly like it was the day before. The ruddiness of his small cheeks, the redness of his eyes, the little hiccups he gave as he asked Simon to face him for another round because he will absolutely win this time. 

He never did. 

They would end up eating jelly smuggled from the kitchens and Simon would show him the ways to hold and strike with a sword, like how he'd seen the soldiers do them in their formations. 

“Ha. The broken tile is still broken I see.” Adult Basilton’s voice murmurs in wonder as they reach the training arena, facing its outer walls. He pushes the doors open to its interior and gets faced with the faint and nearly fading scent of smoke that Simon had left behind from him last going off. His nose crinkles to the smell and he airs with his hand in front of his face as he walks around. Simon blushes.

“If you need a sword, there are some by this wall,” Simon points to the far right wall. “The golden one is mine.”

“Hmm.” Is what Basilton graces him with as an answer. 

Simon sighs and seats himself on the floor by the door, laying his head back against its frame and tilting it to regard the prince inside, walking to the wall and considering each blade that's hung there. 

During the tournaments Basilton didn't once wield a sword, nor did he participate in any sport that required one. From the last time that he and Basil played around with wooden swords till this moment Simon hadn't seen him hold one at all. He wonders how good he must be now, and how well versed he is in the art of swordsmanship. Whether Simon would still win over him after all.

When Basilton picks a sword, hilt short and donned in leather, blade sharp and strikingly silver, uncurved with a pointy end, Simon narrows his eyes and feels the blood sing beneath his skin.  _ Good choice _ , he thinks. 

Basilton circles the sword in two careless arcs, walking around the hay sack mounted in the centre of the arena where it has deep slashes as a result of some of Simon’s sleepless nights, and some of his angry ones. He regards them with curiosity then holds the sword in a greater grip and  _ clang _ , he strikes. Simon’s body jolts, not in alarm nor surprise, but in elation. When Basilton strikes again Simon is gawking and his head is all but dedicated to the image and sound and thought of him. Graceful. Strong. Deadly. Something so different from the little boy in his memories.

Another strike and Simon bites his lips and frowns in concentration, analyzing everything from his foothold to the length of each sweeping arc. He wouldn't call him perfect, but he's certainly very good at it, so much better than Simon anticipated him to be. Is the prince ever bad at anything?

Wandering thoughts of what might be Basilton’s power roam Simon’s mind for the countless time, trying to find new ideas to add to the list of his possible ones, but Simon is soon distracted by another clang near his resting hands. When he looks down he is surprised to see his own sheathed sword thrown by his outstretched palms resting on the dirty floor, ready for him.

“Fight me.”

Simon looks up to meet Basilton’s gaze and gawks like a fish out of water, mouth agape. He maintains a long drawn out eye contact with him that he sees no heat in, only a twinkling for a very wanted and waited-for match, and the trembling of anticipation. He's buzzing with energy. He's alive. So alive. 

At this moment, with Basilton holding the sword and standing tall, it seems like nothing is capable of hurting him or shaking him from his stance. Nothing can come close to touching a strand of his pristine glossy hair tied into a half ponytail at the top of his head. Nothing- well until Simon’s smirk spreads across his lips and he grabs his sword and stands to be on eye level with him, then everything seems possible again.

He unsheathes his sword and holds it in front of himself facing Basilton, meeting his arrogant smirk with his own, his bright eyes with his own, his body with his own. Everything narrows down to this moment, this match, this area, this person before him that lunges forward and strikes at him so that when Simon raises his sword to block it, everything inside him explodes. He's energy. He's him when he goes off. He's magic and dopamine and a bunch of endorphins flowing through veins, and he's the tang of taste before the storm. 

Basilton withdraws and circles him, cautious and careful, so unlike young him who would run at Simon with a loud roar in hopes it would give him leverage and aid in his strength to overpower the older boy. He cannot help but bring it up.

“Hm? Won't scream and run at me? Did you finally learn the lesson?”

“Arrogant arse.” Basilton scoffs, ready to make another comment before he's forced to defend himself when Simon strikes forward and approaches from the wider side of the arena, pushing him to retreat further towards the corner.

He doesn't get time to relish in such small victories, because Basilton isn't a young boy anymore, and he sure isn't giving him any time to breathe before he aims his blade his way in masterful swings that surely came out of years of practice. Distantly Simon wonders if he has been training all those years just to beat him, and if so then will he in fact do it?

“Don't get distracted!” Basilton yells at him then swings harshly towards his neck, which Simon blocks at the last second with loud panting and a sudden leap to the back. He underestimated him, and if he doesn't pull himself together he'll soon face the first time in his twenty-three years of living to lose to Basilton Pitch. 

When Simon catches his bearing and narrows his eyes at him, his senses treat this match like how it treats every serious spar Simon goes through, and he unconsciously maps out all of Basilton’s techniques and moves. He anticipates the next and the one after, and the counterattacks he may perform. What he doesn't anticipate, however, is the discarded sheath Basilton throws his way before using the distraction to attack, then using more of his surroundings to hurl Simon's way.

Simon laughs out loud as he avoids them, calling him a cheater, but Basilton tells him no one would be calling you a cheater when you're the one standing at the end. All you need to do is make sure no one is there to tell the tale. 

Simon throws things back at him. Basilton grins.

Simon strikes with a crouch, Basilton falls and yelps with a laugh as he rolls away and rises once again, aiming for his head.

Simon doesn't give him the chance. He leaps away then lunges back. 

When Simon presses him to a wall with nowhere to escape, Basilton throws his entire body at him and they fall down together, tumbling to the floor with sawdust sticking to their hair and clothes, and tears in their eyes from laughter. They roll and roll, torsos on one another, and when they reach a halt they fall apart and lay on their backs with loud panting breaths and silent laughs. Their eyes glue to the ceiling, time bending around them that it doesn't matter anymore whether it's now or back then when their limbs could barely hold up a real sword, and their hands instinctively seek each other as they would once do. 

They turn to face one another and Simon’s hand thoughtlessly caresses Basilton’s cheek, brushing away sawdust and dirt, resurfacing back the smooth unblemished skin that's so warm beneath his fingers that it burns. He meets Basilton’s eyes that hold him a prisoner in their wards, a mere harpist's son who's so hung up on his friend and his only safe place in a person that he's unable to let go of, no matter how many years go by. He loses himself in them as they draw nearer and nearer, like how a flame seems to a moth as it approaches, all bewitched and bedazzled, uncaring for the end it offers and the pain it promises. 

He watches him. He feels him beneath his fingers. He smells him all around in the place where no other scent but his own lethality exists. 

He desires him nearer. 

The enormity of all the emotions that slam into Simon’s heart overwhelm him and knocks the air out of his lungs, forcing him into a deep dive, then the air gets indeed knocked out of him when the nearing of Basilton proves nothing more than the prince getting on top of him with the blade in his hand and to Simon's throat.

“You lose.”

He loses. He had never wanted to lose as much as he does this moment, beneath him. Loss has never tasted much sweeter than how it does at the hands of the one person he never wished to lose to. 

Everything is upside down. Everything is burning. 

He can't breathe.

He pushes Basilton away and scrambles up, gulping soundly and blinking away all the rosy hues that swam at the edges of his vision. He must be lacking sleep, that would be the only explanation to his questionable behaviour. To the uneven beating of his heart.

He must be, because only Merlin knows how fucked he'd be if he isn't.

\\\\\\\\\/////

Guards at the massive doors to the throne room take one glance at Simon who approaches them and they bow their heads, already holding the handles and pulling them open to allow Simon an in.

He'd been summoned not long before, which really wasn't a surprise to him. He'd been more worried by the radio silence that went on ever since the tournaments. He wondered if the King had been too angry with him he couldn't bear to see his face, or if he's too disappointed he would rather not look at him at all.

He can already predict what he'd tell him once he meets his eyes. “I had hoped better from you, Simon. You are not as diligent as the boy I raised, and the man he ought to be.” 

He'd ask him about his magic, and he'd sense it when Simon hides the fact it's like a sleeping dragon within his body. A heavy presence with wings and a flaming mouth, there sleeping and lying in wait. He'd drugged it but he anticipates that it won't be for long before it spreads its wings and soars, taking Simon up with it and abandoning the constraints of this earth. 

He'd scold him for chaining it, then further scold him for setting it free. 

He enters the throne room and stops before the seated figure of the king, bowing down and murmuring “You asked for my presence, your majesty?”

When no response has been given Simon rises and boldly looks at his king, swallowing down his hot saliva in worry and pursing his lips. King David has been looking at him throughout, eyes like watchful spectacles zooming in on every detail of him, and he's tapping with his index finger upon the arm of the chair. By his side, Agatha resides, not in the seat of the queen but a smaller one, face ghostly white and hands clasped in her lap. She looks at Simon wearily and gives a short nod that he does not understand, then she looks down again to the hem of her lavender gown. 

“Are the funeral processions done for?”

Simon gives a quick nod to the king’s question, standing straighter with his chin high as if in a military report.  “Yes, your majesty. They held the second one in Sormir and then buried Lord Fennis next to his ancestors. His family is being well taken care of, and the lordship will pass to his son, Lord Jaquan, with the aid of their watcher, Watcher Boris. Regular reports are also being sent to the castle to ensure everything is well organized.”

“Good.” King David taps three times and strokes his beard with the other hand, eyes still scrutinizing. 

Normally, this wouldn't be the job for Simon to do: relay messages and overlook affairs of other provinces in Veladan that have nothing to do with Watford. However, he's been treated like the King’s right-hand man ever since his magic made an appearance, and he never had the will to change that when he should be repaying this man who never drove him out of the palace, giving him a roof over his head and bread on his plate. 

“And I assume things here are being taken care of properly?”

“I have questioned the guards. No one has been giving any concrete answers to the matter at hand, as if no one is even aware of how such a thing can happen. No one remembers seeing that man’s face going in or out of the castle before, and no one seems to be lying about it. I have studied the blueprints and every place within the castle walls only to conclude he must've entered through the main gates, not any way else.”

King David frowns, his tapping pausing midair, and he hums. “So you're saying someone let him in?”

“Yes, your majesty.”

“And what did the criminal say?”

“Nothing, your majesty-”

“Maybe because you hastily executed him?” The King finally breaks calm and his eyes flash, glaring at Simon beneath him with hard stone eyes. “I never ordered his fast execution. I never taught you to rush things.”

Sweat beads at the side of Simon’s temple, rolling down slowly and irritatingly as he tries his hardest not to shift feet and appear like the small boy he feels he is in front of a scolding father. He searches for his voice beyond all the cracking and scrambles to hurriedly respond.

“He was not giving any answers, your majesty. The soldiers have already tortured him and not a single word was spoken by him.”

“And this was your choice, Simon? This was what you decided on doing in the end?” King David says slowly like he’s waiting for something from Simon. A word. A clearing of the throat. A hesitant stare that shifts to the door and beyond, to the prince’s chambers where he was days before, listening to the timbre of his own name ringing as soft lips murmur the words  _ trust me _ in a way Simon could not for the life of him disobey. Maybe he was being enchanted the same way Bradley enchants his victims. Maybe he too stood no chance at all.

“Yes, it was. Your majesty have told me before to trust my intuition and to do what I believe is right, and that’s what I did. I had to execute him so others would see the consequences of attempting anything against members of the royal family or any of the nobility. Any disgraceful act won’t be tolerated.”

He hates when he speaks like that, apathetic and cold, words so righteous that they forget humane emotions and the lives that hang by everything he says and speaks. He clenches his fists behind his back and shrouds his face in neutrality that he hopes comes across as confidence and surety. The king, however, doesn’t buy his words. Any other day he would nod at him and feel satisfied by Simon’s morality that he spent years teaching him, but today he’s too agitated to be fooled by it. He slams a fist against the armrest and exhales loudly before he turns to the startled Agatha by his side and yells at her. 

“Tell him! He seems to have no idea about what we’re facing and that we may all soon perish.” He slams his fist again. “Tell him now!”

Agatha Wellbelove gives a visible shudder that Simon aches to soothe, transfixed in place by the sudden outburst of his king that he’s speechless, and he watches Agatha’s eyes get blanker and blanker till she’s looking at him and beyond. Her hands unclasp and her eyelids go unblinking as she starts to echo in the throne room with her thousand-yard voice. 

“ _ Behold and beware, a night so long, a freezing snow, and a blazing light. Retribution knocks doors, and the end arrives. United they shall rise, bringing down the ones who rule. Rejoice, rejoice, thee spirits that await the trial. _ ”

The blood in Simon’s veins freezes and he parts his lips in surprise at the words spoken, the prophecy that Agatha has provided for the king, not un-similar to the one she had told him the day of the tournaments. He casts his gaze towards the king who seems further agitated by the words spoken again for his ears to hear, his face red and his eyes wide. He’s leaning forward in his seat, the fringe of hair somehow askew, and he’s tapping his entire fist now on the wood. 

“Can you hear, Simon? It is our doom! Our end! They, whoever they are that wish harm to us, will unite and bring our fall. And you’re telling me you are taking the easy route with them? You are giving up after a single trial? How dare you!”

“I-” 

“Unacceptable, Simon. Unacceptable! You should know, you out of everyone should know how I think and what I would do. And yet you still chose to do the opposite of it. I am very disappointed in you.”

Simon hyperventilates, feeling the words push against his chest one after the other, and his eyes blur as he stares at the two seated figures before him, one flushed and roused, the other eyes dead and jaw slack. He feels a sick dizziness wash over him as an image flashes through his mind, one similar to what he’s seeing, of a blonde woman, trembling, and a man in the king’s place yelling and shouting. Of Simon watching from the ground. Of the feeling of lava coursing inside him and right beneath his burning skin. His mind tries to suffice for the memory, to provide vivid faces to the people who’re fighting before him, but it merges heavily with the man shouting in front him that he ends up gasping for breath and tumbling back as he loses his footing. His breath is coming out in harsh pants, his hands shaking by his side, and his eyes are frantic as they look around him in hopes of discerning memory from reality. He does not notice the shouting has stopped, nor does he notice the king has stood and is now staring at Simon in alarm.

He does not notice he had uttered the word “ _ Mum… _ ”

“Simon. What is it?”

“I-” He chokes again and bites over his lips to stop them from trembling. He wishes to bury himself where he stands for his shameful attitude, for appearing so weak and frail in such an important meeting, for something that he deserves the yelling for, but he doesn’t hold the power to do it nor the courage to. He tries to steady himself, the best he can, and when he does he goes hurriedly on one knee and fixes his gaze to the carpeted ground.

“I apologize, your majesty. That was disrespectful of me and shall never be repeated. I ask for your forgiveness.”

When the king says his name again, urging him to rise, Simon does so with his eyes still cast downwards and his voice as neutral as he can make it. He tells him he’ll do better from now on, and that he’s taking full care of the prince and his whereabouts. That he’ll make sure nothing as troublesome as the recent incident shall happen again. 

He excuses himself when the meeting ends, avoiding the strange look the king is giving him and the trembling of Agatha’s hands. He tries his best to erase this moment from his mind and to engross himself in work and worries and the phantom feeling of a flushed cheek under his fingertips as he smoothes away and strokes, but it still rushes back to him during his sleep despite all the vials and all the concoctions that Penelope cooks for him. They paint for him pictures of a woman crying and calling for him, and of a man holding his wrist and pulling him away.

He hears his own screams when he wakes up, still calling for his mother.

\\\\\\\\\/////

Questions swarm his head every day. From the prophecies he heard to the actions of the prince that changed drastically ever since the tournaments. He knows he should question him soon, ask him what he really knows and how he should help him. He knows he should get a real answer for why he had to execute the man without trying further, and the reason he should trust Basilton blindly, the same Basilton who was ready to let rumours of his untrue yet shameful liaison to spread and lead to his ultimate doom, and the same one who smacked him once across the face the first time he returned from Borak after the queen’s death and when Simon attempted to hug him like he always used to do. He knew then that their friendship had come to an end, and that Basil is no longer there. He’s prince Basilton Pitch, and he’s the future king, not the boy he played with.

Asking him now to dig up all the past affections is like asking him to uncover a coffin filled with a rotting corpse, except it’s unrotten, and that it’s not a coffin but a treasure box that Simon keeps sheltered in the back of his head. 

Basilton avoided him ever since their sword fight, he stopped trying to oppose the regulations Simon has placed over his whereabouts, and he stopped leaving his room unnecessarily. The only moments Simon saw him in are when the king invites him to dinners where the council and the prince are also present. He sneaks glances at him all the while, forgetting for once the lavish meal set before him in favour of feasting upon every movement and every sound the prince is making as he eats. 

_ Tell me. Tell me what it is you think of. What it is you want. What it is that made you change so much then change back.  _

_ Tell me what you faced and what you fear. Who you are and what we are.  _

_ Tell me you’re still Basil and I am still Si. _

_ Tell me that I’m not the only one. Tell me you felt it too… _

Basilton would occasionally look up, either feigning ignorance to the fact Simon has been staring at him heatedly or taunting him with placing the piece of meat slowly between his lips before biting on it with their eyes connected. Simon would flush and look away immediately, feeling uncharacteristically shy.  _ Shameless _ , he calls him in his head.

Apart from that Basilton is a rarity to come across, and Simon is above seeking him willingly just to beg for an answer.

He now walks along the corridors and hallways just to breathe and to escape his desk and paperwork. He greets guards and servants as he walks by noncommittally, and moves his feet along the lower floor just to reach the palace porches overlooking the gardens and the paths set in stone. He extends his arm to touch each stone pillar he passes by, feeling their alternating coldness emanating from their depths and the warmth reflected on them from the setting sun in the horizon. The sky is scattered with strokes of purple, orange, and pink. He looks on with a faraway gaze and faraway thoughts that had reached stagnation. 

The roses shine red under the complimenting light and cast their shadows upon the grass filling the gardens and the fields extending to the castle’s outer walls, and they sway gracefully along with the cold breeze of the incoming night. They, however, do not come close to be as captivating as the far figure walking among them with his hair flapping along with the wind and his skin glowing gold under the sun. 

Simon halts and his fingers twitch, already feeling his skin on them again as he stares at him from where he stands, and suddenly he isn’t above seeking anymore. He’d run to him and he’d shake him and beg. He’d stand before him just so he could see him up close and force him to look back at him and to pour all that he feels through those unfathomable eyes of his. He’d challenge him and yell, then accept his rage and his attacks.

He’d fight with him just so he can lose again. And he’d lose just so he can get close again.

He pushes his feet to finally leave where they were fixed and to move forward. He walks his way through stones and grass and roses pricking his calves with their thorns and leaving him tingling in a way that makes him feel alive rather than just energy and fire, and he pushes away at taller leaves that hinder his sight from the mirage that he’s chasing with gradually quickening pace.

_ Wait for me! _ He’d call out, but he wants him just the way he is. Relaxed and ethereal as a hallucination or a ghost that lures men away just so it can feed on them the way Simon gets fed on internally whenever he’s pinned with his gaze. 

As he makes his way towards him with careful steps that ensure he disturbs him not and watches him as long as he can, Simon notices another figure rising from between the bushes and walking stealthily as his own steps towards Basilton. He’s dressed like a soldier, and his hand holds a curved blade that he tightens his hold on as he approaches the prince from behind. Years of intensive training and being put under tests are the only aid for Simon to remain soundless and not immediately yell at the prince to run, though they do nothing to his wildly beating heart that Simon fears is as deafening to them as it is to himself.

He has no weapon on his body, but his only leverage is the element of surprise as he seeks both prince and rogue soldier in silent footsteps, increasing their pace as the man gets closer and closer to Basilton who is unaware of their presence behind him. He walks nimbly and with leisure as he regards the garden all around, and the soldier gets further within his space that Simon feels his blood freeze and his body tingle with the start of an explosion.

_Not now not now not now_, he prays as he runs, uncaring for any sounds he makes, but it’s too late. The soldier raises his blade, and he strikes.

Simon yells.

He yells his name and he forces his eyes to remain opened and not shut with dread, and that’s the only reason he sees it when it happens- when Basilton ducks down, produces a knife from his boot and slashes at the soldier’s gut to cut it open.

The soldier stumbles back with a wheezing sound forced out of his throat at the sudden pain, hand squeezing his stomach as blood oozes out between his fingers, and a look so like that of a feral animal crosses over Basilton’s eyes as he breathes rapidly and rises to a stand. Simon does not allow himself another hesitant moment before running forward the remaining steps and holding the soldier by the arms to restrain them behind his back, his eyes wracking the prince from top to bottom just to make sure he hadn’t imagined the miracle and that Basilton is indeed unscathed. He meets his eyes and he’s surprised to find his own vision blurry with cold sweat mixed with tears of fright. He’d never been as scared as he was seconds before. No nightmare will compare to the thought of losing him before his own eyes, helpless to save him, unable to stop it from happening no matter what he does.

The grey eyes turn to a chilly fog, a gaze so cold it freezes, not so feral anymore than it is that of a predator eyeing a tiny insignificant prey. He doesn’t wait for Simon to speak, nor does he wait for him to move a single inch, before he lifts the hand wielding the knife and slashes it across the man’s throat, welcoming the spray of blood that sprinkles the front of the navy blue jacket and the pureness of his skin. Red blooms on him, and paints the very few white flowers amidst the roses red. The man writhes and falls, gurgling over his blood choking him and clawing at his throat, and he spams there at Simon’s feet till the life leaves him and dims the lustre of his eyes, leaving silence to swell between them. 

Simon’s limbs are trembling with adrenaline, his tongue tied. He has forgotten how to speak and how to move, now held a captive to the predatory gaze directed at him. 

“I knew you’d come,” Basilton says all too casually, like he hadn’t just murdered a man without a twitch. Like he’s not stained in blood. Like he’s been waiting for him just like that.

He’s all gold skin, all clear eyes, and all black obsidian hair with flecks of red. His hand cups Simon’s cheek the way Simon did to him in the training arena, thumb smoothing away the specks of blood rained on Simon as well, then he lets it fall as he retraces his steps back to the castle, leaving the last of Simon’s vision to be of his back turned yet again, the sun on him, and the scent of his cedar body oil overpowering the roses all around.

**Author's Note:**

> Should I give y'all music rec. to each chapter? Cause that's how I write (getting vibes from a certain song)  
Also if this draws out a bit in the next week, dw. I'll be regular after it. I'm hoping I will be next week too and this won't need to be said <3
> 
> Again, THANKS!


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